


Heartlines

by dedizenoflight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Abyss - Freeform, Adoption, And see all kinds of things, Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Funerals, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Merchant Family, Miklan (Fire Emblem) Redemption, Miklan Redemption, Miklan and the Merchant meet all kinds of people, Miklan finally gets supports, Mother-Son Relationship, No romance between Miklan/The Merchant, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, School, Weddings, World Travel, YES BETA WE LIVE UNLIKE GLENN, travelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2020-10-11 11:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 109,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20545145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedizenoflight/pseuds/dedizenoflight
Summary: "There surely must be a mistake," The Merchant's voice masks a small, unsure chuckle, as if she cannot believe what's written on the paper. Miklan continues to stare at the floor, brow knit in barely restrained fury, his lip curled back into a snarl. "Surely this is the price for hire per month, correct?""Oh, no," Lady Alicia Gautier laughs, the sound sending a chill down the Merchant's spine. "No, Lady Witch. That's the price to *own* him."A traveling merchant visits the Gautier household to sell her goods and to ask for a knight to be her bodyguard. The Gautiers quickly offer her their oldest, Crestless son, Miklan, not as a contract, but to be sold.It’s hard to be friendly with someone who hates your guts. But all this time on the Fodlan roads gives them time to know each other better. And to watch the country change around them.Thus begins a long fifteen years.Pre-3H, continues through Academy Phase, and into BL route post timeskip.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as crack and I got attached to the idea I'm sorry--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 5/14/2020: To those just now reading; welcome! It's been almost a whole year since I started this fic! Can you believe it?
> 
> You may have noticed this story hasn't been updated in a while. I apologize about that! At first, I was busy with wedding planning, but now with the coronavirus, my attentions have been diverted elsewhere. I'm also a bit low on the writing spice, but I promise this fic hasn't been abandoned entirely. 
> 
> Thanks so much for checking Heartlines out, and I hope you enjoy!

_And I never wanted anything from you, except everything you had and what was left after that too..._

_  
_

:-:

_Imperial Year 1169_  
_Pegasus Moon, Day 13_

_Gautier Territory_

The wind and rain never seem to cease. The rain, mixed with prickling ice, pours down from the grey sky hour upon hour, pooling upon the half frozen earth. The Merchant sighs. When night fell, all of this would freeze all over again, and there would be blankets of thick ice covering the roads. Traveling would be difficult come morn, and if she wasn't at the Gautier estate by sundown, she, her horse, and all her goods were liable to freeze out here in the thick pine forests. She would have to make haste, and quickly.

Pulling her furred hood down further over her face, the Merchant spurs her horse, and urges it down the muddy, churned up roads. The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus was far colder, far windier, and much rainier than the Adrestian Empire-- and she half wishes she were back in the lush, rolling plains of Gronder Field, or down in the luxurious capital of Enbarr. Her time down in the Empire had softened her to the elements... but she was much richer in coin now due to it. She could cloak herself in as many furs as she needed; but all she had to do was get to her clients without getting robbed or killed.

The Merchant reaches the top of the hill, and after raising a hand to her eyes to better discern the mountainsides, she finally spots what she's looking for. A thick ring of black smoke rises from the chimneys of the elegantly lit Gautier Mansion, nestled into the pines. Reining her horse in, the Merchant guides the animal down another cliffside path, and finally makes it onto the gravel-paved road leading up to the estate.

Just in time, too... the sleet begins to intensify, and the Merchant grimaces as she feels her fur cloak soak through. If she wished to look presentable to Margrave Gautier and Lady Alicia, she better get up there.

The rest of the ride is easy, at least. All the Merchant has to do is speak to the heavily furred and cloaked guards at the iron gates, and they let her in without any issue. A groomsman stands ready at the carved front door to take her horse, a few maids with parasols beginning to untie the goods strapped to her horse's back. A rush of warm, golden air sweeps over the Merchant when the doors open up for her, and she cannot help the sigh of pleasure that escapes her as a maid removes her soaked cloak.

"Milady," A young maid murmurs, motioning down a hallway. "We've taken your personal belongings down to this room. Feel free to change before your appointment with Lord and Lady Gautier."

"I do believe I'll do just that. Thank you." The Merchant replies, slipping the little maid a small gold coin before disappearing down the halls. The Gautier Mansion very well wouldn't be out of place down in Enbarr, where she had long sold her goods in salt scented, open aired villas. The attention to detail is astounding, from the creamy, soft bed sheets to the lace trimmed windows, a dark hand tracing over the bumps of little grapes carved into her doorway. But she cannot gawk long, not when she has an appointment to keep.

The Merchant quickly finds the washroom, cleans herself from the muck and grime of the road, and ties her white hair up with a gold comb set with a mother of pearl butterfly. She hid away her fine things while on the road; it was much easier to travel looking like a brigand than a merchant loaded with gold and jewels.

Her embroidered black coat, recently trimmed with white stoat fur, goes over a black vest and skirt, lace tights and her knee high boots slip on easily... yes, this will do. Warm but not overly so for a magically warmed home. Enough to show that she was indeed the Merchant, the Roaming Witch.

All that's left to do is to go upstairs, to the den, and get her things set up. Her goods are already up there, waiting for her to elaborately set them up, so she makes haste up the stairs, and tries to remember which door the den was behind. Not that one, no, not that... ah, the door with the Gautier coat carved on it, as stated in she and Margrave Gautier's letters. When she opens up the door, sure enough, her bags are laid out on one of the long tables there, and...

...And someone's already thumbing through them. There's a red-haired boy standing on his tiptoes by the table, pulling strung gems and books out of her bags like they were toys. A broken string of pearls dangles from his hand, raining down upon the plush carpets and rolling underneath the furniture.

"Hey, hey!" The Merchant cries out, rushing inside to snatch the now ruined string of pearls away. "What in the Goddess's name are you doing?!"

The boy stares up at her with round brown eyes, looking back down at his now empty hand. "Well, I _*was*_ looking at the things in there." He says, turning back towards the bags, and casually flipping through a few books. The Merchant shrieks and grabs a few of them; some of those were volatile spellbooks that could spit out any number of gruesome fates to the flippant. "I was looking for a gift for the kitchen maid."

"Why," The Merchant stresses, putting the books down on another table, snatching yet another jewel from his hand, this one an emerald pin. "Do you need pearls and spells for your _*kitchen maid*_??"

The boy's lips split in a smug, toothy grin, smiling up at her. "Because she's a lady, and ladies like pretty jewels, don't they? Plus she said it was the only way she'd forgive me for peeking up her skirts last week."

The Merchant stares incredulously down at the small boy, the books and jewels clutched to her chest long forgotten. The door flies open with a bang, and a sopping wet teenager storms in, his red hair bitten with frost and his features contorted with rage. The Merchant takes a few alarmed steps back, and the teen brushes by her, grabbing the younger by the shoulders with quivering, wet hands.

"There you are, Sylvain!" The teenager roars, giving the younger a few good, hard shakes. The boy cries out, possibly in terror, or from the force of the shakes. "I bet you thought that little prank was _*real*_ funny, didn't you?? I nearly froze to death in that goddamn well! If the groomsman hadn't come by, I'd still be down there!"

The boy, Sylvain, turns his face up towards the angry redhead, lip snarled back in an angry grimace. "Yeah, now you know how _*that*_ felt, Miklan! That well's really deep and really cold! You're just lucky I didn't tell Mom and--"

Miklan makes an angry snarl and raises a hand, as if ready to slap the young upstart. Sylvain cries out and shrinks back, and the Merchant decides now is a good time to remind Miklan that she is standing quite literally right behind him. She clears her throat rather loudly, which startles him back to reality, and that moment is just long enough for the door to crack open again. Miklan quickly lets go of Sylvain and shrinks back, staring at the floor as Margrave Gautier and his tiny, redheaded wife file into the room.

"Miklan," Margrave Gautier's voice is an even, flat tone, and Miklan's shoulders scrunch up even more at the sound of it. If the Merchant didn't know any better, she'd think the man was addressing a servant. "You were told to go to the stables and help there while the Merchant was here. What are you doing inside-- and as wet as a fish at that?"

Miklan opens his mouth, but upon looking down at his now smirking younger brother, he shuts it and makes an angry noise, stomping out of the room without another word. Sylvain adjusts his now slightly wet vest, takes the broken string of pearls out of the Merchant's hand, and passes it to his mother, Lady Alicia. "I might have accidentally broken that," He admits, looking back at the Merchant. "Can I keep it?"

Lady Alicia sighs, and puts the broken string of pearls down on the table. "Ah, well, at least it was only pearls... Sylvain, why don't you go back to playing with your nursemaids? Your father and I have business to attend to."

Sylvain makes a noise, as a young frustrated child is want to do, and his lip juts out in a pout. It only takes Alicia a moment to cave, sighing once more and clapping once, twice, a nursemaid appearing from seemingly nowhere. "Ethel, take Sylvain and play with him in the room over. Leave the door open so he can come and go."

The maid bows, extending her skirts in a curtsy, and takes Sylvain by the hand. He waves to the Merchant, steals the broken chain of pearls off of the table, and they disappear into the next den over. Margrave Gautier clears his throat, and reaches out to shake the Merchant's hand after she, too, curtsies. "Welcome to our estate, Lady Witch. I apologize for the scene my eldest son made."

The Merchant raises an eyebrow. So that was indeed his son. She thought the red hair between Alicia, him, and Sylvain was the same shade. "Think nothing of it," She says smoothly, shaking Lady Alicia's hand as well and turning back to the tables. "I'm afraid my little friend Sylvain made it a... little difficult for me to get ready. If you'll wait just one moment, I can get everything out and ready for you to look at."

Margrave Gautier simply makes a noise of acknowledgement, and sinks down into a plush green chair by the roaring fireplace. Lady Alicia sits down in her own blue chair and pretends to make herself busy with a book, but the Merchant can feel Alicia's eyes on her back the whole while she readies her stock. The Merchant lays out a delicate lace tablecloth and a few small pillows, carefully arranging Adrestian chokers and gloves, dainty pearl rings from Sreng, a variety of fine leather goods from Almyra, and gold dug up from the deep mines of Duscur. There's spellbooks and staves too, a few elaborate daggers from Brigid, and delicate shells from the Rhodos Coast.

The Merchant stands back and lets the two of them browse her wares, only stepping in to help Lady Alicia into a choker or two. Margrave Gautier selects a new leather belt with fine tooling on it, and a new dagger, while Lady Alicia takes all her Adrestian goods. The gold is counted out, and the Merchant is pleased that she'll be able to buy more wares soon; and maybe afford a few little treats for herself.

"Very good," The Merchant says, sweeping the gold into her purse as a few maids come in to take away the selected goods. "I thank you for letting me stay until tomorrow. I would be loathe to travel this late at night and in such weather. Before I retire for the night, though... I would ask Your Lordship for a favor."

"Oh?" Margrave Gautier arches a shaggy eyebrow, brown eyes regarding the Merchant. "And what be that?"

The Merchant tucks her purse into her pocket, patting it once to ensure it is well and snug inside. She would have to tie that to her belt later. "You see," She begins. "I came all the way from Enbarr on this recent trip. I will be crossing this country's width and breadth many more times, and I fear that the roads are only becoming more and more dangerous. It is already dangerous for regular folk; I am a young woman that travels alone with a large sum of fine goods. It would not be... prudent, for me to continue traveling alone."

The Merchant dips into another curtsy here. "If Your Lordship and Ladyship have the means, I would beg a knight or two to come along with me on my travels. The Knights of Gautier are legendary, and I would pay a handsome sum to have them as my guard."

Asking for knights leaves a sour taste in the Merchant's mouth. Five years ago, she was able to roam the countrysides and the cities all by her lonesome without much trouble, but these days, it was very dangerous for women to travel alone. She could handle herself, but if a day came where she scraped past more than one or two stray bandits, she had no doubt they'd slit her throat and rob her blind. Dying was not very high on her list of things to do, after all; business had to continue.

Margrave Gautier hmms, regarding her words. Lady Alicia leans into his side, patting his elbow. "You don't have to give an answer tonight," She tells her husband, looking up at him. "We have all of tomorrow to decide."

"...Very well," Margrave Gautier rumbles, looking back towards the Merchant. "I do have a few knights I might be willing to part with, but I need to think it through. You will have your answer by tomorrow afternoon, before you depart. Go and rest now; you have a long road ahead of you tomorrow."

The Merchant keeps herself stooped, red eyes looking at the plush carpet. She can see a few stray pearls in the elaborately woven cloth, twinkling in the firelight. "Thank you, Margrave Gautier. You are most generous."

:-:

Come morning, the Merchant wakes to a maid leaving a platter of hot tea, coffee, and morning pastries on her vanity table. Rolling out of bed, the Merchant grabs a pastry and opens up the curtains to take a look outside. The sleet has ceased, and the sky is bright blue and clear, but the roads are absolutely choked with ice. She can see servants out already smashing the frozen earth and scattering salt, but she grimaces at the thought of having to travel across the icy woods. It would be slow going if the sun didn't melt most of this ice by afternoon...

The Merchant takes her breakfast to the washroom and takes a long bath, sighing contently as she sinks underneath the hot water. It had been so long since she had access to such a large tub... she was long used to lukewarm spongebaths at inns, or cold soaks in rivers and lakes. This would probably be the last time she could enjoy such luxury for a while, so she soaks for as long as is polite before finally climbing out. She dresses her bone white hair with lavender oil and pins it all up with a bone carved comb, and dresses in her normal traveling gear. No need for silk and fur anymore.

A maid comes to fetch the Merchant as she finishes packing, and she guides her down the pine-hewn halls. The Merchant almost thinks she'll be taken down to the knight's hall by the stables, but instead, she's taken into another den, a painting of the original Gautier staring down at her with a severe look.

The Merchant swallows; why on Earth was she brought in here? Did Margrave Gautier intend to bring a few knights in here? It wasn't the best spot for them to showcase their strength to her, but...

There's a knock. The maid moves from her prone position against the door and opens it, letting Margrave Gautier and Lady Alicia inside. The Merchant quickly curtsies and shakes their hands, and shares a few pleasantries. She studies their demeanor carefully, as... something doesn't feel quite right to her. It is as if a large weight had been lifted off of their shoulders, all seemingly overnight. Had they spent all night trying to decide whether or not to sell her a knight? The lightheartedness is... odd, and it sets the Merchant on edge. Something about this sale didn't feel right to her.

"So," Margrave Gautier begins, sitting down in a chair and motioning for the Merchant to do the same. "My wife and I have come to a decision. We have a contract here for you to sign to draft one man to your service. While we cannot supply any Gautier Knights, I believe we've found an appropriate workaround."

No Knights were available, but he was still making a contract with her? None of this is making any sense. A man dressed in black and orange presents himself and a small tray, the tray carrying a few leaflets of paper, a candle and wax seal, and a quill with an inkwell. Margrave Gautier motions to it with a hand, prompting the Merchant to pick up the papers to study them.

This was all standard contracting; terms of agreement, no responsibility in the death of the person, standard for hired swords and knights, and... the name of the person they're drafting to her service is blank. The Merchant furrows her brows, and looks up from the papers. "I... I'm afraid I don't understand. Who on Earth are you putting in my service?"

Lady Alicia smiles, and claps her hands once. "Miklan," She calls, as if she were addressing a maid. "Come in."

The pine doors creak open, and with heavy, stomping footsteps, the same redheaded teenager from last night stalks into the room, brown eyes cast down upon the hardwood floor. The Merchant can't help but gasp a little-- is that not Margrave Gautier's oldest son? She turns back to the Margrave and his wife, laughing nervously.

"I'm afraid I still don't understand," She says, putting the papers down on the tray. "Is that not your oldest son?? Your heir??"

"Heir?" Margrave Gautier looks back at the teen, regarding him keenly. The Merchant sees_ *nothing*_ in his eyes-- no love, no familiarity, nothing, and the Merchant knows she's missing some vital piece of information. "No, nothing of the sort. Miklan was born without a Crest. In the Holy Kingdom, an heir _*must*_ have a Crest to succeed the family. Sylvain, his younger brother, was born with the Crest of Gautier; thusly it is _*he*_ who will inherit the house."

The Merchant was only vaguely familiar with the concept of Crests down in the Adrestian Empire. They were highly coveted, of course, and most heads of households born Crests, but she didn't think that... well, she didn't know _*what*_ she should have been thinking. She swallows and looks back to Miklan, who refuses to look up. "Isn't he of age? He can choose whether or not to come with me if he is."

"Not for another year, so we're free to put him in your service." Lady Alicia confirms, taking the papers away to scribble Miklan's name into the appropriate places. The Merchant watches the effortless flow of the pen, Miklan Anschutz Gautier, written over and over again. "Miklan has good strength and he's handy with a lance, but he's far too hotheaded and temperamental to be apart of the Gautier Knights. Perhaps you will be able to tame him down a bit in your travels, no?"

The Merchant doesn't really know how to reply to that. This was her _*son*_ they were speaking of, her firstborn, and yet, she regarded him no more than another one of her servants. Lady Alicia finishes writing on the papers, and has Margrave Gautier inspect the documents after. He nods once, flips to the last page, and points to the final lines.

"This outlines payment. All you need to do is sign." The Merchant barely hears the Margrave speak. She picks up the papers, red eyes scanning the last few lines over and over, her white brows scrunching her dark skin.

"There surely must be a mistake," The Merchant's voice masks a small, unsure chuckle, as if she cannot believe what's written on the paper. Miklan continues to stare at the floor, brow knit in barely restrained fury, his lip curled back into a snarl. "Surely this is the price for hire per month, correct?"

"Oh, no," Lady Alicia Gautier laughs, the sound sending a chill down the Merchant's spine. "No, Lady Witch. That's the price to _*own*_ him."

One thousand gold. A paltry sum. The Merchant had bought rings more expensive than the wholesale price for this one man. She tries to meet his eye, but he just looks away, his teeth grit. He seems like he wishes to speak, but he cannot, not while both his mother and father sit there. "But what if I leave the country?" The Merchant tries to reason. "Wouldn't you want to hear from him? What if I leave, and-- well, never return??"

Margrave Gautier stares her down for a moment, making her shrink back into her chair, before his shoulders relax. "It makes little difference to us," Margrave Gautier waves a hand flippantly. "He will be of more use to you than us."

Miklan makes an audible noise, and they make no suggestion that they heard it. The Merchant sets her jaw, and sets the papers down. With deliberate slowness, she draws her purse out of her coat pocket, and slowly, slowly, counts out one thousand gold.

She doesn't feel comfortable about this sale, not at all. She was expecting a _*contract*_, a time for her to borrow a knight, not to be sold a whole person. But she cannot go out alone, not in this weather, and not with things the way they are. And... if this truly is the way the family treats their oldest son, she's not sure if she's comfortable leaving him here in their care.

So she signs. Her real name, in flourishing script. Margrave Gautier pours melted candle wax next to his signature, and presses his signet ring into the hot wax. It is done.

"Very good, Lady Witch," He smiles. There's too many teeth in it. The Merchant shudders. "Best of luck on your travels."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big shoutout to my friend Spedira, who betas and edits and makes adjustments to Heartlines! You can find them on reddit under Spedira. Please do send them a happy little note and hit them up for commissions. I'll be featuring some pieces they've done for Heartlines in later chapters.

_ Sometimes I think it's getting better, and then it gets much worse-- Is it just part of the process? But, Jesus Christ, it hurts.... _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169  
Pegasus Moon, Day 18 _

_ Fraldarius Territory _

  
“Alright, the sun’s at its peak. You can take your clothes off, now.”  
  
Miklan secures the last strap on their horses to the tree as the Merchant pulls some of the previous days’ outfits from a satchel, throwing them over her arm and heading towards the frozen river they’d come to rest at. After an awkward moment’s pause, he leans against his horse’s shoulder, looking towards her incredulously.  
  
“Sorry, but uh… _ what. _”

The Merchant sets her linens aside and unsheathes a belted dagger, sinking it into the ice lining their camp. Miklan tosses a few stray branches into the budding fire she had started, watching her stab the blade into the ice over and over.  
  
"Look at it like this,” She starts, brushing aside a few cut ice fragments. “We smell awful. We'll be at House Fraldarius in two days time and we need to look our best. Dousing ourselves in lavender oil will only go so far, and so we need to wash our clothes, _ and _ us."

"You’re kidding, right?" Miklan laughs increduously, throwing a hand to the rather high blankets of snow around them. "You’ve seen all of this, right? You really wanna get down to your skivvies in this forsaken weather?! You're insane, woman; we'll both catch our deaths for sure!" As if to further his point, his words are capped off with a sneeze, ruffling his orange-red hair down to its roots.

The Merchant sighs and pulls her blade from the ice, using her foot to smash in the now weakened ice. "I doubt you like smelling yourself souring any more than I do, Miklan, and no amount of magic can take the stench out of our clothes. Neither one of us will be looking Duke Rodrigue in the face while smelling like the dead if I can help it."

Reaching over and grabbing a heavy sleeping fur, the Merchant throws it at Miklan, and without much more fuss or ceremony, begins to pull her fur lined brigand outfit open. She pulls a small leather bag from a pocket, and a small root tumbles out into her palm. The Merchant shreds the end of the root with her knife, and dumps it into the icy water, stirring it with a stick to agitate the foam now rising to the surface.

"And there's the washpot," The Merchant says simply, pulling her dress off and leaving her scant in her undershirt and smallclothes.  
  
She dumps the dress, her overshirt and tights into the frigid water, and wraps herself in a fur to keep warm in the meanwhile. "You'd best get on with it if you want dry clothes by evening. It's only going to get colder, too."

Miklan grumbles some truly fiery curses under his breath, his hands working into fists for a few moments. It seems the prospect of having to spend another night in travel-weary clothes and having to smell himself wins out over disobedience; for once.  
  
Hunkering down on the river edge, a fair distance from the Merchant, Miklan peels off his armor, bit by bit, until he reaches the black shirt and pants underneath. Reluctantly, he grabs a stick and dumps both things-- and his underwear too, after a moment of hesitation-- into the foaming water.

They're quiet for the first few minutes. Miklan vastly preferred it when the Merchant didn't speak to him at all. He had figured, being that the only responses she was typically able to get out of him were short grunts of affirmation or denial, she’d have eventually given up.  
  
"You wouldn't be chatting up any regular old knight," He'd snarled at her, back on one of their first days out. "I’m just like any other Crestless for-hire, so do us both a favor and just stop talking."

And so the Merchant went silent. For the past few days, they'd either ridden in silence, his horse's reins tied to her saddle, or she'd only spoken to give him instructions. This afternoon's the most they've spoken. The Merchant supposes she cannot force him, although... she'd like to try and get them both on a more even footing. As even as two people in their situation could be.

The Merchant huddles more underneath her furs to shield herself from the biting cold. She works the foamy water into her winter clothes, vigorous scrubs freeing days worth of filth from the fabrics, and finds her gaze wandering back towards Miklan. His eyes are firmly focused on spinning his clothes half to death, on the foaming, churning waters, a chaotic reflection of his state of being.

Miklan was young still; the paperwork the Gautiers had given the Merchant indicated he was a few months away from eighteen. He was of good build, and certainly tall, standing over the Merchant by a few inches. He had his mother’s bold red hair, to be certain, but the rest of him was his father. He had strength, there was no doubt there. But not once had she seen Miklan crack a smile, not even the barest semblance of one. No... the only thing inside of him was that swirling, chaotic mess of anger and bitterness. Of course he'd be like that. How could he not be?

The whole time he's been stirring the water, Miklan's been angrily muttering under his breath. "Care to tell me what's on your mind?" The Merchant decides to ask him. Perhaps she will be lucky and he’ll say something.

Miklan grumbles under his breath for a moment. The Merchant thinks that he’s going to ignore her for a moment, but then, he speaks. "You know what this is?" He asks, not quite to her, more to the air around them. "This is funny. Absolutely _ hysterical _."

“How so?” The Merchant dares to ask, arching a white eyebrow.

Miklan breathes out a forced bout of laughter, his eyes still focused on the churning water underneath his stick. "It's hysterical that I'm out here. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, just about naked under this fur in the middle of winter and washing my only set of real clothes in a frozen river, with a weird woman who bought me for less than a pony costs. It's just-- _ peachy _."

The last few words come out of gritted teeth, his lips pulled back into a feral smile. The Merchant remains quiet for a moment, unsure of how to reply. Miklan pulls his clothes from the foaming water and slaps the sad, wet pile onto the ice next to him, staring at them as if he wished they'd combust on the spot.  
  
"I'm out here, with _ you _ in the freezing cold while my little shit of a brother is warm and cozy and head of the household. I'm scrubbing linens in a lake like a _ peasant _ and this is gonna be my life until I'm dead while Sylvain rules House Gautier."

The Merchant slowly reaches out and takes the clothes away from him, relieved that he doesn't take the time or the effort to smack her with the stick still clenched in his hand. She turns and spreads the clothes across a large, flat stone by the fire, stirring the flames with a nearby branch. She reaches for Miklan's pack and tries to offer it as a sign of peace, knowing he had at least some extra smallclothes and a shirt in there, but he snatches it out of her hands like it was going to burn him.

Miklan turns away from her now, his shoulders shuffling as he shrugs himself back into _ some _ clothing. He makes no move to speak again, so the Merchant tries herself. "You don't like your brother much," She slowly begins. "I saw as much while I was at House Gautier."

The redheaded teen rolls his eyes. "How observant of you!" He sarcastically replies. "Once that little brat was born, my parents forgot I even existed half the time. If they did, it was to tell me to take Sylvain here, play with Sylvain, don't make your brother look so bad, Miklan, why do you keep doing this, Miklan--"

The stick splinters in Miklan's hand as he slams it against the hard packed ice. "Now here's a little something that can be between me and you," He says to the Merchant, a wild look in his eyes. "A few weeks ago, I was sent to the well to go get some water for the kitchen. Sylvain decided to come along with me, and I made up this wild story about there being a monster in the well. The idiot believed me for a few good moments, and when he leaned over the edge of that well to take a peek..."

Miklan makes a pushing motion with a hand, then makes a falling motion complete with a low whistle. The Merchant shudders, and not from the cold. Miklan continues on as if he hadn't noticed.  
  
"At first I was going to get him back out after a minute or two," He says, his voice lower, as if admitting a grave sin. The odd smile that tugs on his lips, though, tells a different story. "But watching him struggle in the well, unable to get up, watching him be _ powerless _... it felt good. Really good. So I left him there."

The teen throws the remains of his splintered stirring stick out to the frozen river, the sound echoing eerily across the silent landscape. "The night guard found him twenty minutes later and brought him inside, alive. And I went to bed _ seething _ that he didn't die.  
  
But you know what I realized after I woke up? If he had died, our parents would have just kept spitting out kids 'til they got another one with a Crest, so it didn't even _ matter _."

Miklan lapses into a brittle silence. The Merchant swallows, carefully toying with her words. "But Sylvain is still your kin," She tries. "Do you not--"

"Don't you _ start _." Miklan whirls around to snarl at her, hunched over like a wounded animal in his furs. "What do you know? You've never had to worry about Crests a day in your life! I don't give a shit either way if Sylvain dies. Like I said, it-- it doesn't matter. My folks would have just pumped out more kids, eventually popped out one with a Crest, and then it'd happen all over again, and no matter what, I'll never amount to anything."

Miklan's voice thins out into an odd, quiet warble at the end of his words, as if realizing the truth behind his tirade. The Merchant reaches out to offer him a hand, unable to help herself, but he effortlessly slaps it away from him. "Don't think that," She tries to soothe. "You're worth plenty. You--"

"Of course you'd say that. I'm your _ property _." Miklan spits. "You'd do anything to protect your property. Don't even try to fool me, or yourself, into thinking that you care beyond how fast I can jump in front of a lethal blow."

The fire cracks behind them, the only sound in the silence that follows. The Merchant draws back, reaching into her pack, and she quietly tosses him a rag. "You should wash before you catch a cold." Is all she says as she turns away from him to do the same.

He grunts. And for the rest of the day, they, like the world around them, are quiet.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169  
Pegasus Moon, Day 20 _

_ Fraldarius Territory _

The Merchant raises a hand to her eyes, shielding them from the blinding reflection of the pure white snow fields. Her red eyes study the thick pine forests just down the way, and after spotting that familiar line of cheery chimney smoke, she points her other hand above the treeline. “There’s Fraldarius Manor, Miklan. We’ll be there in an hour.”

Miklan makes a noise of affirmation from his horse, and the Merchant counts that as a win. She wouldn’t say that things between them had… ‘improved’, but Miklan at least somewhat openly talks now, even if it’s to complain about the weather or about the past few days. The Merchant isn’t sure if such a change should be concerning, but she would rather him air grievances than be locked in silence all the time.

The Merchant leans back in her saddle to open a bag pocket, locating a tiny vial of lavender oil and quickly working it into her hair to mask any lingering sourness. She tosses the vial to Miklan to do the same, and they set off across the pristine fields of snow. It had been a long, long while since she had been to House Fraldarius; if she was remembering right, the last time she was here, Duke Rodrigue’s wife, Lady Eliza, was pregnant with their second son.

The road here had been simple enough to travel, even if it had been choked with snow and ice. The roads in the Holy Kingdom were well marked, and signs were maintained by each territory, so it wasn’t easy to get lost. Of course, should a blizzard plow through, that story would be very different, but the Merchant is grateful they’re coming at the tail end of the season. The blizzards were done for the year, Goddess willing…

The beauty of the cripplingly cold winter in the Northern Holy Kingdom was something to behold. In warmer countries, like Brigid or the Adrestian Empire’s coastlines, the Merchant could go a few years without seeing snow, save for on the highest cloud-scraping mountains. Even if she had weak blood and couldn’t handle the chill, it was astounding to see the world so still, so silent, so white under the blankets of powder-soft snow.

Miklan had very different opinions. “I hated this time of year even _ when _ I had a roof over my head.” He’d groused more than once, distastefully eyeing the icicles hanging thickly from the sagging pine branches. “Being out here doesn’t endear it to me that much.”

He voices this yet again, and the Merchant can’t help but stifle a small chuckle. “We’ll be inside soon. Take another fur out if you’re that cold.”

Miklan grumbles and does just that, piling another fur over the one already wrapped around him. She would need to buy another set of winter clothes for him, and herself… but would it be worth it, so close to spring? She needed to carefully budget out what gold she had in preparation for the next season. When this weather broke, they’d be heading to Fhirdiad, the capital, to restock on Holy Kingdom goods and figure out where next to go…

This portion of Fraldarius Territory was dotted with small villages and old churches, their spires towering above even the tallest pine trees. The Merchant adored little villages like these, and village they had just passed through on their way to Fraldarius Manor had a gorgeous church with lovely stained-glass images of the Goddess, prompting the Merchant to stop for a moment to go in to pray.

What turned into a moment quickly turned into an evening, after the two of them realized that they were in no shape to ride through the night. The nuns there kindly let them sleep in the church, and the Merchant spent a while laying on the floor, staring up at the elegantly arched ceiling. When she had turned over to go to sleep, she noticed that Miklan had climbed out of his blankets, and had approached the altar. He was kneeling there, in the dim light of the lit candles, his lips moving in an inaudible prayer.

What he could have prayed for, the Merchant had no idea. But seeing the look in his eyes as he cast his eyes heavenward, his face stained in rainbow from the stained glass, the Merchant felt that perhaps it wasn't her place to wonder.

Homey pine cabins and homes made of fired brick dotted the dirt street, dogs barking, and children bundled in fur lined coats scattering as they passed by the next morn. They exchanged hellos with a few villagers, but the Merchant noticed that Miklan was… noticeably uneasy. This is confirmed when the Merchant heard the whispers between a few of the villagers—that red hair, was that not a Gautier? The Merchant quickly guided them out of the village after that, but…

The Merchant shakes her head, shaking the memory out of her mind as well. It mattered little now, now that they were so close to Fraldarius Manor. Spurring her horse, the two of them take off in a smooth cantor, the pure white snow parting at the horses’ hooves. A cleared section of road waits for them across the field, giving way to a smooth paved path. The dark, dusky walls of the log-lined manor greet them as they ride up to the front of the mansion, two groomsmen already waiting for them.

Miklan stumbles off his horse, groaning and rubbing at his sore thighs while the Merchant dismounts and unties his horse from hers. She pulls the saddlebags off and passes the reins to the groomsmen, and they’re led inside together. To her surprise, she can already see that familiar head of dark blue hair, the tall form of Duke Rodrigue waiting to greet them as well.

The Merchant barely has enough time to drop her bags and dip into a curtsy when Rodrigue approaches, pulling her up and shaking her hand warmly. “It’s been a long time, Lady Witch.” He smiles at her, patting her on the shoulder. “Last time you were here…”

“Your second son hadn’t been born yet, yes,” The Merchant finishes, laughing a little. Miklan remains quiet, although she can feel his gaze on her astutely. “He’s got to be… six now, correct? How fares Lady Eliza?”

Rodrigue’s face darkens a bit, his jaw tightening in a grimace. For a moment, the Merchant can see the glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes. “I’m… afraid we lost Eliza when Felix was born. The Red Fever took her just days after.”

The Merchant grimaces as well, a pang echoing in her chest. Not Eliza... “Ah, I’m sorry… You have my condolences, Rodrigue. Eliza was a wonderful, kind woman. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t there with you when you buried her.”

Rodrigue takes in a slightly sharper breath, and the Merchant is quiet while he pulls in a few deep, calming breaths. “I… I am just cheered by having you here, at long last. We can visit Eliza’s grave later tonight, together. I’m sure she would like that.”

There’s a pattering of footsteps on the staircase behind them, a teenager just a few years younger than Miklan approaching. His midnight blue hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and his coat, emblazoned on the coat of the Royal House, is _ obviously _ filthy from what must have been training. “Lady Witch!” He calls, excitedly clapping her on the shoulder. “It’s been a while!”

“Hello, Glenn,” The Merchant greets warmly. It feels like there’s a stinging palm print from where he touched her; He'd gotten a _lot_ stronger in the past six years.. "You've been busy."

Glenn grins at her and spins around to show off the Royal insignia on his coat, obviously proud of it. "I'm actually just here for a visit, so it's your lucky day. I'm heading back to Fhirdiad in three days." He spins on a boot heel and looks her over, as if discerning what about her had changed. "You haven't aged much, Lady Witch. What's your secret?"

"Never ask a woman for her secrets, Glenn." The Merchant warns, despite the smile on her lips. "Perhaps I take the hearts of little boys like you to keep myself looking youthful."

Rodrigue laughs, and Glenn clutches his chest, taken aback. "What, me? A little boy still? You wound me, Lady Witch! Wound me!"

Glenn cuts the theatrics when he finally takes note of Miklan, surprise flitting across his features. "Why, Miklan," He exclaims, grabbing his shoulders and giving them a few good claps. "Is that you?? I haven't seen you in a good long while! What are you doing here with a mankiller like Lady Witch? Your parents send you on a merchant errand with her?"

Miklan growls and shrugs Glenn's hands off of him, glowering at him. "Yeah, sure, you could say that. The errand lasts _ forever _."

Glenn laughs, perhaps a little nervously, not quite getting that he wasn't kidding, while Rodrigue and the Merchant exchange glances. Sensing the change in mood, Rodrigue takes Glenn by the shoulder, smiling kindly down at him. "Glenn, why don't you take Miklan down to the training grounds? I'm sure you'd like to spar with him again like you used to. Lady Witch, we can discuss our sales in my office..."

Without waiting for his father to say anything else, Glenn takes Miklan by the shoulder and practically drags him down the hall. Miklan yanks his shoulder back, but he still follows the other teen down the winding hallways that were still halfway familiar. His last visit had been... Goddess, ages ago, for sure.

"What's her relation to your dad?" Miklan decides to ask, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. "Some kind of sordid lover?"

Glenn turns a face, looking over his shoulder. He speaks to him the way he had the last time he'd been here, and it makes Miklan's guts twist uncomfortably with the familiarity. "Eew, no. Lady Witch goes way back with my parents. When she was our age, she started her merchanting business in Fhirdiad and my parents sunk some money into her business. She paid them back when business started booming and they've been pretty close since."

"Why Lady Witch?" Comes the next question as they pass under a portrait of Fraldarius, and the home altar to the Goddess. Miklan slows in his footsteps just long enough to cross himself before the altar, before chasing after Glenn, eager to be away from the Merchant.

"Why's she called that?" Glenn shrugs. "I don't know. I guess to protect her identity. Lady Witch's always been a private person and she deals with a lot of nobles. In case anything goes wrong, she can shed that identity and become someone new."

"I'd sure like to do that." Miklan muses to himself.

They reach the back of the house, and Glenn swings the heavy doors of the indoor training hall open. A brisk fire runs in the hearth, and rows of training weapons and leather stands of armor dot the walls. Glenn moves to take a spear down from the wall, but Miklan holds up a hand, instead sitting down at one of the nearby tables. "Could we not? I've been riding a horse and sleeping on the ground for a week now. Don't have it in me to fight."

Glenn purses his lips, obviously disappointed, but he puts the spear back and sits down beside him anyway. He tries to put a hand on Miklan's knee, and is quite surprised when Miklan scoots his knee away from him. "What's gotten into you?" Glenn asks, concern in his brown eyes. The unfamiliar warmth of it makes Miklan want to vomit. "You're so... _ jumpy _and angry. Are you really having that bad of a time with your folks at home? I know that the last time all of you were here, you fussed a lot, but..."

Miklan barks out a horrible laugh, jerking a thumb back towards the closed doors. "Your Lady Witch _ owns _ me now for the hefty sum of 1000 fucking gold. You could say I'm having a _ real _bad time with the folks."

Glenn's eyes widen, and he leans back in his chair, absolutely dumbstruck. "You've-- you've got to be kidding me. That’s preposterous-- how can she _ own _ you?"

"I dunno, but here I am," Miklan grumbles, staring down at his now calloused hands, worn from days of hard travel and chopping up felled logs and branches for firewood. "They put it in writing that your Lady Witch owns me like a slave now."

He laughs lowly, flexing his fingers underneath his gloves, watching the leather crease and wrinkle. "Isn't that funny? To come back to your friend's house after two years, and you're not even your own _ person _ anymore. You're some woman's _ chattel _. Do you have-- do you have any idea how absolutely humiliating that is?"

Glenn pushes himself out of his chair, starting to pace a little bit. He bites his lip in thought, mulling over the situation. “What to do, what to do..." He murmurs, midnight blue hair bobbing with every step he takes. “Wholesaling family members _ is _ common in older families, especially those with Crestlines. However, given your near to legal age… If I were you…”

He stops and turns back to look at him, biting his thumbnail. "If I were you, you know, I would go home and contest the sale. I’d look for a technicality.”

"That's stupid!" Miklan grouses, scrunching his red hair up in his hands. "The sale's already done. What am I gonna do, go *waltz* back to property I technically can't go back to by myself, and grovel at their feet that I'm a good little boy, don't sell me to strangers? They'll just _ laugh _ at me, Glenn."

"It’s always worth a shot," Glenn's eyes study him in, and the nausea swirling in Miklan's guts gets even worse. "You won’t know until you try. Your family’s been honorable in all our dealings, they should--"

"You don't know any better, okay?" Miklan explodes, slamming his hands down on the table and pushing himself up. "Your mom and dad don't care that you don't have a Crest, you don't _ hate _ your little brother, you don't _ deal _ with half the shit I had to put up with at House Gautier, okay? What would you know?? I'm not going back there and _ humiliating _myself!"

"Miklan--!" Miklan doesn't hear the rest of what Glenn has to say, storming out of the training hall and down the endless, winding hallways. The nausea threatens to overtake him-- why did he yell at him like that, Glenn was just trying to help, Glenn was always too good to you-- and he has to stop for a moment and swallow back a mouthful of bile. The first time he'd seen Glenn in years, and he yelled at him and said awful things to him. Of course he did. Of course he did...

It's not hard to find the guest bedrooms, seeing as how he'd been there several times before in years past. His things are already laid neatly against a wall, but he pays it no mind. Miklan slumps himself down into the bed and coils up under the covers without kicking any of his armor off, clutching a pillow to his chest. He lets loose a scream of frustration into it, and it feels good to scream. To get it all out.

He lays there like that for a long, long time, so tired but unable to sleep, burning with frustration. The Merchant's gone for quite a long time, the grandfather clock in the hallway chiming 11 PM before he brings himself back to awareness. She was probably still busy with Duke Fraldarius, doing sales... Which means he was alone for the time being.

Miklan pushes himself up on his hands, staring down at the bedsheets for a few minutes. Glenn's words are still spinning around in a chaotic mess in his head; go back home, contest the sale, I’d do this, I’d do that. He snorts, flexing his hands. What would Glenn know...? Glenn never had to worry about playing second fiddle to his little brother, Felix. Glenn was a Royal Knight now. Glenn was going places, had opportunities.

Go back home. Contest the sale.

The words spin more in his ears, and he falls back to the mattress, covering his ears with his hands, trying to mute the noise. Just in time, too, it seems... there's some footsteps outside the door, and underneath the covers, he can see warm, golden light spill into the darkened room. He lays very still, hoping that whoever's opened the door doesn't bother to check on him.

The door remains open for just a moment, until he hears a soft sigh, and then the click of the door, the light vanishing. He can then hear the door to the adjacent room open, and slowly shut. That must be the Merchant going to her room to sleep.

Miklan rolls himself out of the bed, now knowing he'll never be able to sleep-- not with Glenn's words scrambling his head up like that. Go home, contest the sale... it was a fool's errand. They'd never listen. But some foolish part of him, as small as it may be, wants it so desperately to be true. If he pled hard enough, if he _ begged _ hard enough, maybe they would let him have a second chance. If he brought up technicalities, the law, maybe they'd change their minds. Maybe if, maybe...

With an angry growl, Miklan stops his pacing and stoops to check the contents of his bags. The Merchant had entrusted him with a good amount of dried meat, some cheese and bread, a map and compass, a firestarter... all just to have him carry it, she was sure, but now, this was presenting as a golden opportunity. He refused to live his life as that woman's chattel-- not if he had a chance to confront his parents.

An odd, burning determination tickles the back of his chest. Or it could be more nausea. Regardless, Miklan quickly shrugs his pack on, and slips out of his room, closing the door behind him with nary a click. The grandfather clock now reads almost 12 AM-- had he really been awake and stewing for that long?

It made little difference; the Merchant should be asleep now. She slept pretty soundly, too, so she wouldn't be up until the sun came up. That gave him ample chance to get out of her sight, and get a head start back to Gautier Manor.

It's easy to creep through the dim hallways, retracing the steps he'd taken years ago across this house. He has to stop and hide from a few late night maids going about their work, but he stays to the shadows and stays as quiet as he can. When he finds the door leading to the outside barns, he pulls it open and slips out quickly, his teeth chattering against the chill.

But still, he creeps along the snowy fields, slips into the barn, and manages to find his horse. Untying the rope closing the stall door, he guides the horse out of the barn, and into the thick woods surrounding Fraldarius Manor. There’s no snowfall to cover his tracks, but, if he’s quick, he can get far enough away that nobody would be able to catch up with him in time.

He counts out all his paces, slowly and carefully, and when he reaches one thousand, Miklan sticks his foot into his saddle, and swings himself onto his horse, taking off into the darkness of the night. He knew the way home. He just had to get there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout as always to Spedira for betaing and for helping me write this out. i keep forgetting that I have to pace the fic because I'm just so eager to get things going...

_ My black eye casts no shadow, your red eye sees no blame. Your slaps don’t stick, your kicks don’t hit, so we remain the same... _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169  
Pegasus Moon, Day 21 _

_ Fraldarius Manor _

The Merchant is woken by the soft pitter-patter of a maid's footsteps, and then the burst of morning sunshine that pours in from her now opened windows. "Good morning, ma'am," The maid says cheerily, pinning the curtains aside. The Merchant groans and tries to put her head into her pillow, but the damage is done.

"Morning," The Merchant now mumbles, sitting up in bed. Her head pounds from the lack of sleep; how late had she and Rodrigue stayed up last night? They had finished sales, but then he had this very nice decanter of port brought in, and they got to talking about the past six years... "What time is it?"

"7 AM, ma'am." The maid replies, returning to a little service cart parked next to the door and bringing over a tiny platter that has her breakfast; a piece of toasted bread with smoked white trout, a few links of sausage, three strawberries and a cup of watered down wine. “Go ahead and have your breakfast while I get your bath warmed up.”

Another hot bath in just a week’s time… what luxury. The Merchant pulls her covers back and takes the plate to the desk near the window, taking a bite of the toast and fish. Simple but filling; even the household menu was a reflection of Rodrigue. She looks at the pristine white world outside, watching a few branches sag under the weight of the snow on them.  
  
“Have you woken Miklan up yet?” The Merchant calls to the maid. “He’s my guard in the next room over.”  
  
“No, ma’am. I came to you first.”  
  
“Good; I’m glad you did. Let him sleep in.” The Merchant takes another bite of toast, red eyes watching as a branch quivers, then snaps under the enormous weight it’s bearing. “He’s had a long week.”

:-:

Glenn’s rather quiet when the Merchant joins the Fraldarius family in the den after her bath. He was always one for talking her ear off, but now he gazes at her quietly, as if re-evaluating her as a whole. Felix, his little brother, warily eyes her from Rodrigue’s side, his little hands fisting his father’s coat.

“Come now, Felix,” Rodrigue soothes, patting Felix on the shoulder. “Don’t be so shy. Lady Witch has been our friend for many years now.”

Felix hums lowly and presses himself even further into Rodrigue’s side, his face disappearing from view. The Merchant laughs softly, leaning back in her chair and nursing some tea from the tea set on the table. “I will be back again.” She promises. “I don’t intend to be away for another six years.”  
  
“I’ll see you to it,” Rodrigue replies, his eyes lit with a smile. “Where will you be heading to next?”  
  
“Fhirdiad. It’s a just a four day trip from here, and I’m in desperate need of supplies for the road back to the Empire. I’ll be going to the Alliance after that, and then completing the circle and returning to Faerghus.” The Merchant takes another sip of her tea, gazing down at the coppery surface.  
  
It was an ambitious plan for certain. While she was no stranger to travel, she had spent the past few years solely within the Empire, and two of those years were just in Enbarr. And now, she would be traveling with another person, so her pace would have to slow. While this meant she had a chance to visit smaller villages and focus on selling goods there, she would have to be mindful of what stock she carried, and when…

Rodrigue nods, putting his cup of coffee down on the table. Felix reaches for the cup, but Rodrigue easily deflects his hand. “You might see Glenn again if you’re heading to Fhirdiad, especially if you try your hand at the lottery-market down at the castle. But, could I perhaps bribe you to stay until Glenn’s departure day…? I’d prefer it if you three left together.”

The Merchant chuckles. “This eager to keep me, hmm? I suppose I can’t complain. If you could sell me some young men’s clothes, I’d greatly appreciate it. I’m afraid Miklan’s parents didn’t send him with much.”

Something odd flits across Glenn’s face. Rodrigue sighs, and picks his coffee cup back up, taking a steep sip. Felix reaches up and grabs for the rim of the cup, and Rodrigue finally lets him take a drink from it. Felix’s face screws up in disgust, and he’s quick to spit the bitter drink out into a napkin.

“I’d heard of wholesaling Crestless heirs out as hands-for-hire in the previous generation,” Rodrigue muses, looking down into his mug. “But I never dreamed that Margrave Gautier would continue the practice. Please, Lady Witch, be good to Miklan. In truth, I would offer the boy a sale of freedom…”

The Merchant winces. She had thought about that once or twice in fleeting points, as they’d traveled up to Fraldarius, but she was in no position to be traveling alone. And… “I would,” She replies. “But I cannot afford to travel alone. Not to mention if I let him go now, he’ll just storm back to Gautier Manor and get himself killed like that, or pick a fight with the wrong person.”

Glenn grimaces.

The Merchant sighs and puts her cup down on the table, lacing her fingers together. “I never _ wanted _ to own a person, Rodrigue; owning another person is _ despicable. _And I cannot just handwave the fact that I still own him at the end of the day. We cannot hope to be equals as long as I have that power. But with him the way he is, what can I do?? It’s either I let him go and be made a fool of, or I keep him by my side and pray that I can work some of that anger out of him...”

It’s now that Glenn finally speaks, his voice oddly quiet for such a bombastic boy. “Last night, I…” He falters, falling back into the chaise cushion. “I told Miklan that he should go contest his sale.”

The Merchant goes very, very still. “You-- you _ what _ ?”

“You’re right, owning a person _ is _horrible and I wanted to give him a chance to try and get his freedom back!” Glenn tries to stress, wringing his hands. “There has to be a technicality for him to cite, some sort of weird archaic law--”

The Merchant’s on her feet and out of the room before he can even finish, Rodrigue calling for her. Glenn told Miklan to contest his sale-- solid advice if there _ was _a technicality he could use. Solid advice if Miklan wasn’t an angry, bitter man ready to strike at anything that came near him. If Miklan didn’t hate everything around him.

The Merchant flies up the stairs, and goes back to the guest rooms, quickly pushing the door to his room open. As she feared-- the bed’s empty, his packs gone. Miklan was gone, and had been for hours.

Spinning on her heel, the Merchant goes into her room and quickly grabs all of her belongings, shoving them into packs and wasting no time in making herself presentable for the road. Miklan was gone, and had an almost overnight head start on her. While she had been lounging with the Fraldarius family, Miklan had slipped away into the icy world outside, and was heading straight back to Gautier Manor.

That _ fool _! What was he thinking? His family was so eager to give him up to her-- why on earth did he think they’d take him back? And not to mention, if he showed up without her and caused a scene, she would look like a fool that couldn’t control her own bodyguard. Her reputation as an esteemed seller would take a nosedive. No one would want to have Lady Witch and her feral guard anywhere near them...!

The Merchant bursts out of her room and thunders back down the stairs and makes a beeline for the stables. Rodrigue’s finally caught up to her, following after her as quickly as he can. “Is he gone?” He asks, and she nods to confirm.

“I’m going after him.” The Merchant says, eyes trained forward as she pushes the doors leading outside wide open. “If I hurry, I’ll be able to catch up to him once I cross the Itha River. It’s a week’s journey from here, I _ have _to catch up eventually…!”

Rodrigue looks disappointed, but follows her all the way to the stable, where she easily finds her white horse and pulls him out of his stall. She wastes no time in swinging herself onto the saddle, and Rodrigue holds the reins for a moment to keep her from bolting immediately.

“Follow Itha River, don’t cross it at the normal bridge. There’s another crossing by a village called Telta; do you know of it?” The Merchant nods; she’d sold there once or twice before. Rodrigue seems satisfied with this, letting go of her reins. “Cutting through Telta ought to shave off those precious hours.”

Rodrigue finally takes a few steps back, and without delay, the Merchant spurs her horse and they take off into the deep, snowy hillsides. “Come back soon!” Rodrigue yells to the wind, his midnight blue hair blowing in the wind. “Promise me you’ll come back!”

“I promise!” The Merchant calls over her shoulder, her heart twisting that she had to leave so soon. But she had to get to Miklan before he got back to his household and hurt someone on accident, or caused something even worse.

She had to hurry. She had to get to him before he made a mess of everything…!

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169 _ _  
_ _ Pegasus Moon, Day 24 _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Gautier Territory _   
  
Miklan’s hands are numb. He blows a hot breath into them to try to warm his stiff digits, and resumes trying to start a fire. If this wind wasn’t so bad, he would have had one ages ago… His fingers feel clumsy, unsteady, as he tries to coax a spark out of this damn flint.

A spark finally flies from the flint and steel, lighting up the small wad of kindling in his pile of mismatched sticks. He quickly kneels and stuffs some more kindling inside, blowing gently to encourage the growth of the flame, and soon, he has a tiny fire. Abysmal, compared to the large, hearty fires the Merchant made, but it would do for him.

Dinner tonight is a slice of bread, quickly toasted on a stick, a slice of cheese, and a strip of dried beef. Not the most luxurious meal he’s ever had, but like the fire, it would do. Miklan’s at least happy he knows what field survival skills he does; if he were Sylvain, his dumb ass would have frozen days ago. But not him. He could survive out here in the sticks if he really had to.

Miklan leans back against the tree whose roots he’s made camp in, absently chewing on a hunk of the dried meat. He could do it, survive in the wilderness with naught more than some weapons and a few extra men. But then, that thought puts a frown on his face; more likely than not, they’d be forced to resort to thievery. And he was _ not _a thief. He wasn’t so low class and coarse to resort to such trickery.

But what if he had to?

Miklan shoves the thought from his head and stabs the end of his lance into the flames, as if he were banishing that thought to the fire. He’d never resort to that-- not in a thousand years. Things would work out as they should. He’d go home, his parents would see the errors of their ways, and he…

He banishes that thought to the flames too, and hunkers down into the tree’s roots to try and sleep. He had only a few hours before sunrise, so he had to make these hours count.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169 _ _  
_ _ Pegasus Moon, Day 26 _

_ Gautier Territory _

“Have you seen a young man with bright red hair? He stands about this tall--” The Merchant leans over in her saddle and motions to a point in the air approximate to Miklan’s height. “And has brown eyes, and should be wearing armor? He has a brown dappled horse too.”  
  
The farmer shakes his head, leaning on his shovel. His children, bundled in furs and daggers strapped to their waists, pay her no mind and continue feeding the chickens clucking about in the yard. “No ma’am, can’t say I have. Not a lot of people pass through these parts so we would have seen ‘em if we had.”  
  
The Merchant sighs and leans back in her saddle, tossing the farmer a silver piece for his troubles. “Thank you, kind sir. I’ll try the next village over. Take care not to freeze.”  
  
She touches her spurs to her horse’s sides, and she sets off again down the churned, muddy village roads. Miklan had been somewhere in this area; she had been able to pick up on what she thought was his trail two days back, and had been following since. He still had a huge head start on her; if she hadn’t been able to get to him yet, she’s concerned he’ll get to Gautier Manor ages before her-- if someone else didn’t find him first.

Blowing a hot breath into her hands to warm the digits, the Merchant leans forward in her saddle and urges her horse on further. “Come on, Darian,” She murmurs to the great white beast. “Get me to him. Hurry, hurry…!”

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169 _ _  
_ _ Pegasus Moon, Day 28 _ _  
_   
_The outskirts of Gautier Manor_

Miklan’s cold, wet, and sports quite a few new gashes and scrapes, but he’s alive. He’s alive, and he made it to the little walled off town that his parents lorded over, where he’s currently catching his breath. The Merchant was nowhere in sight; if she was coming for him, she wouldn’t be able to catch up to him before he got to his old home. The thought fills his gut with an odd sort of giddiness.

A few people recognize him, but he’s sure his absolutely feral appearance is keeping them away. His hair could use a good brushing, twisted with thorns and brambles, his cheeks and nose are cut up from being tossed from his horse-- regrettably, more than once. He’s filthy and he smells the part, but none of that matters. What matters is that he made it.

As soon as he’s done gulping fresh water from the local well, Miklan grabs his pony and hauls himself back onto it, ignoring his screaming core muscles. It was only a few more minutes from here. He could endure a few more minutes on horseback, if it meant getting his freedom back.

He spurs his pony on, out of the claustrophobic walls of the town, and follows the familiar paved path down the tree-lined valley. Miklan’s heart’s pounding in his ears, for more reasons than one; relief to be away from the Merchant, to be home, terror at what might lie ahead… But he’s come this far. He’d been on his own for an entire week and was still mostly in one piece. He could face his parents-- alone.

Miklan can see those familiar iron-wrought gates after a while, guarded by the same two men that watched him and the Merchant disappear into the snowy wilds just two weeks prior. To his shock, when he approaches, they go on guard, and he has to rein his horse in to stop them from impaling them through on their blades.  
  
“What are you doing?!” Miklan demands to know, his voice wild from exhaustion and exasperation. “You know me! Let me in!”  
  
The guards don’t move an inch. “Margrave Gautier has said that you are not to be allowed entry without your patron.” The oldest guard, a haggard middle aged man with a thick, bushy mustache, shoots back. “And you are not here with her. You cannot go inside.”

His patron. His _ patron _. The sheer audacity of it all is astounding. Miklan dismounts his horse, pulling his lance from its sheath. He doesn’t want to hurt these men, but if they keep standing in his way…

“I won’t repeat myself,” Miklan grinds out through gritted teeth. “I’m still a Gautier and you _ will _let me in.”

The guards don’t move. Miklan snarls in frustration, turns his lance in hand, and hits the older guard in the head with the shaft of the weapon. It’s enough to send him reeling back, and the other guard’s quick to come at him, sword raised.

His heartbeat is the only thing he hears as he drops his lance and grapples the armored guard, grabbing hold of his wrist and twisting hard enough to make him let go of his weapon. After that, with a swift blow to the side of the head, the young man crumples in his arms. Miklan drops him and turns to confront the older guard, who’s now back on his feet, grabbing his lance from the muddy stones and jamming the butt of the shaft into the Guard’s stomach.

The older man staggers back, the wind blown right out of him. Miklan’s on him in a moment and he thrusts out his sword to guard himself. Miklan feels the sharp sting of the sword rending the flesh of his arm and he has to bite back a howl. It hurts, it _ hurts, _but he can’t stop now. Miklan kicks the knight’s shin as hard as he can, and when he staggers forward, he slams his elbow into the back of his helmeted head. A numb pain shoots up his arm, but it does the trick-- the old man crumples to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Miklan’s hand comes up to touch the deep wound on his arm, hissing as his fingers sink into the parted flesh.

Miklan looks down at the two stunned, unconscious guards. He did this, he realizes after a moment, his heart still thudding in his ears. He did that. He’d sparred with other knights, he’d given Sylvain some good thrashings, but this...

…There’s no time to waste worrying about it. He could deal with the wound later, too-- he still had to get inside. Stealing the keys to the lock from the older guard’s belt, Miklan unlocks the gate, pushes one of the sides open, and gets back on his horse, heading up towards the pine wood house.

When Miklan jumps from his horse at the entrance, and storms through the front door, he’s confronted by a few more armed guards. The nausea from last night is back, twisting his guts, making his heartbeat impossibly loud.

  
He is not welcome here.

:-:

“Miklan?? Yeah, we saw him, he went up the way to the Gautier House just a half hour--”

The Merchant doesn’t even bother listening to the townsperson any more than that, quickly turning her horse towards Gautier Manor. She’s been awake for the past day, trying to make up for lost time, she barely hears anything beyond the thundering of Darian’s hooves, but she’s so close now. If she managed to get there before he did…!

Her horse whinnies and suddenly comes to a halt as they approach the gates of the manor. Miklan’s horse is there, meandering and trying to graze past the thick snow, but that’s not what catches her attention; it’s the two passed out guards that do, blood oozing from a cut on the younger guard’s forehead. The blade of the older guard is stained with blood, and the Merchant’s heart sinks. Miklan was here.

She stops just long enough to check on them; both alive and stable. By the time she gets back onto her horse, more knights on horseback are arriving on the scene. “Lady Witch,” One hails her down. “You’d best get to the manor! Your charge is tearing hell through the manor and causing all sorts of chaos!”

The Merchant nods, her throat dry with dread, and she guides Darian towards the house. Even from here, she can see the absolute chaos; knights on horseback are circling the front of the house, cutting off any possible escape routes. She can see other people circling around to other doors, and even from down here, she can hear Miklan _ howling _ inside.

She abandons her horse near the front and quickly goes in through the opened door, heading past other knights and a few scattered maids. The commotion’s coming from upstairs, if all the downed art and broken glassware didn’t tell her that already. A few haphazard tears in the wallpaper mark where Miklan’s been, likely from swinging his lance around like a madman. The Merchant hurries onward, following the trail of broken vases and torn portraits.

There’s a yelp from just down the way-- from the great den that the Merchant did her sales in two weeks ago. She runs that way, heaving for air but unwilling to stop, not when she’s so…

The Merchant bursts into the room, just in time to see Miklan be pushed to the ground by two knights, his lance being wrenched out of his hands. He screams and howls like a feral animal, struggling under their grasps, and the Merchant’s stomach turns to lead when she sees that Margrave Gautier and Lady Alicia were indeed here as well.

Lady Alicia looks up and sees her, gasping in relief. “Lady Witch, thank the _ Goddess _ you’re here!” She exclaims, pointing at Miklan’s struggling form. She looks… embarrassed, and annoyed as well, and the Merchant spots two downed tea cups by the table. Ah, looks like he interrupted tea time. “He came in, swearing up a storm and tearing things apart like a madman! What is he doing here without you?”  
  
“I--” The Merchant finds herself at a loss for words, quickly dipping into a curtsy with her short traveling dress, eyes cast at the floor. “I-I’m so sorry, my Lady. He slipped away from me in Fraldarius. There’s no excuse for my lapse.”

“Indeed!” The Margrave thunders. He motions for the two knights to pull Miklan to his feet, the teen snarling and staring at him with wild eyes from under his shaggy bangs. “I expected better from you, Lady Witch. You have been honorable thus far, but this-- there is no _ excuse _ for him to show up here and make outrageous demands without you! Have you grown lax in your newfound wealth? You’re skirting towards _ dangerous _territory, Lady Witch.”

“You’re right.” The Merchant sinks even lower into the rugs, mortification flushing her brown face. “You’re absolutely right. I can only beg for your pardon. Please, forgive us-- I will do whatever it takes to make this up to you, I swear it.”

The silence from the Margrave is almost deafening. The Merchant is afraid to look up from the plush carpets, her heart pounding in her ears. Was this truly it? Was this where her business died? Where she and Miklan were thrown into the stocks for flogging? The possibilities are endless, and _ terrifying.  
_

But at long last, the Margrave sighs, taking a step back and waving a hand to the guards. They bring Miklan back over to the Merchant and shove him towards her. “I will extend mercy to you only once.” His voice is low, even, but full of warning. “I am not devoid of feeling or understanding. But if he comes here again without you, there will be consequences-- for both of you. Am I understood, Lady Witch?”

The Merchant’s heart feels like it will burst as she dips her head even lower, almost kneeling on the ground. “Y-Yes, Margrave Gautier. You are most generous to me. I will not forget it, for as long as I live.”

“This is horseshit!” Miklan screeches, threatening to surge forward to his father again. The Merchant has to grab him and hold him still. She swears she can see the unshed glimmer of frustrated tears in his eyes. “I’m still your son! You can’t just do this to me! I’m your oldest son!!”

The Margrave towers above them, his voice a thunderous condemnation. “You are a Crestless good-for-nothing _ wretch _! The only use you’ll have is whatever Lady Witch sees fit for you! If you dare show your face here again without her, even if it’s to beg for scraps after she throws you out, I’ll have you taken to the stocks like a common criminal!!”

He turns away from them, his blood red cape swirling. “Now begone from here!!”  
  
The Merchant says no more. She bows again, apologizes to his back, then to Lady Alicia, before she takes Miklan’s hand and physically drags him from the room. Miklan struggles for only a moment more, before allowing himself to be pulled down the hall, down the stairs, and all the way outside.

They don’t say anything to each other, not until the Merchant’s pulled him from the house and they’re heading down the path towards the gate. She lets go of his hand, and whirls around to look at him, red eyes alight with frustration.  
  
“What were you _ thinking _ ?!” She hisses, grabbing his shoulders. Miklan quickly shrugs them off, but she grabs them again and shakes him. “You could have gotten yourself killed out there! And you--”

She throws her hands up, motioning to the chaotic household behind them. “You made me look like an absolute _ fool _ in front of some of the highest nobility in Fodlan! Do you realize that if I’m blacklisted, if my reputation is tarnished, that _ both _of us will starve?!”

Miklan snarls at her, shoulder-checking his way past her to storm towards the gates. “Perhaps it’d be better to starve then if your precious reputation hinges on a few words from my folks! You’re a sellout like any other noble-sucking merchant in Fodlan!”

“You--” The Merchant breaks off into an exasperated, angry laugh, storming after him. “I have _tried _to make the best of our situation, Miklan! I don’t like _owning _you any more than you do, but since your parents decided it was up to _me _to take care of you--”

“You could have refused the sale!” He rounds on her again, towering over her. “If you had just refused the sale we wouldn’t _ be _in this situation!”

“What, so you could be disinherited later? You heard what your father called you-- why would you want to stay with a family like that?! I have offered you the window to the world outside of Gautier Territory, and you have _ rebuffed _every kind hand I’ve offered towards you!”

“You’re just looking after your _ goods _ , don’t you _ dare _swing it as anything else! You’re just justifying buying another person at this point!”

They reach the gates, and the Merchant lets out an angry, exasperated howl. “Do you see? This is why your parents decided to foist you onto me and get you out of their house! This wild, boorish, stupid behavior!!”

The Merchant realizes that what she said was horribly cruel the moment a flutter of despair crosses Miklan’s face. They freeze there at the gate, and the Merchant fumbles horribly with her words. This wasn’t going the way she wanted. Not at all. “Miklan, wait, that-- that didn’t come out right at all. I--”

Miklan remains silent, his brow knit hard and his lips tight in a barely restrained grimace. He passes through the gates and grabs his horse by the reins, stopping only to pick up a few scattered supplies. He stares hard at her after he remounts his horse, and motions to the road ahead of them as if saying ‘well then, lead the way, _ master’ _.

The Merchant sighs, and mounts her horse as well. She can't look him in the face. “...Come on then. We have a week’s trip to Fhirdiad from here.”

Together, in silence, they head down the paved road, and leave Gautier Manor far behind them. The Merchant feels like she’s back to the night she left with him-- except now, she’s made things even worse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Spedira for telling me that goddammit I need to let the Merchant grow alongside Miklan. I'm so used to this character being doting that it's hard to shift gears...

_ I was a heavy heart to carry, my feet dragged across the ground, and he took me to the river where he slowly let me drown... _

  


:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169_  
_ Lone Moon, Day 4 _  
  
_ Blaiddyd Territory_

The last month of the year finally brings the barest traces of warm weather. Even the smallest temperature change has prompted the winter wonderland of Northern Faerghus to start melting, the sun turning snow to slush, and ice into rivers of broken shards. The Merchant is happy for the change in weather. More people would be out and about, looking to buy new supplies, and the snow-choked passes down to the Adrestian Empire would finally reopen.

In three more days, she and Miklan would be in Fhirdiad, a busy city bursting at the seams with rich tradition and even richer patrons. The Merchant was secretly praying that her fellow merchant and rumor miller, Anna, was there… Anna always provided her with insider secrets and had never let her down thus far with her predictions. In return, she told her what was going on in the lands she had just come from; whether they should pack up and head elsewhere, or if there was about to be a boom in business.

And honestly, being in Fhirdiad would be a welcome change from traveling. Ever since the Merchant and Miklan had left Gautier Territory, Miklan had not dared to say a single word. The Merchant had been similarly mute; she wasn’t sure how to begin apologizing for the cruelty she had inflicted upon him. The words all stuck in her throat, and any apology she had wanted to make never came out, thus… leaving them at this impossible impasse.  
  
She would apologize. She certainly had every intention to, but right now, getting them out of the wilderness was her main priority. She could not apologize if they were dead. 

The Merchant glances downward and double-checks their map, comparing the road they’re on to the one inked on the map. If the map was right, Macuil Bridge was just a few miles ahead. The Merchant’s half afraid the bridge is in sour shape from the winter, but it was either take a chance, or go around the aptly named Macuil River, which would take an extra two weeks.

So, they press onward towards. When the bridge comes into view over the hill, the Merchant’s brows furrow. There’s massive icicles still hanging from the underside of the wooden bridge’s floor, and a few parts seem to dangerously sag under uncleared snow drifts. The river underneath rages with freshly melted ice water, large chunks of the previous freezes drifting down the river current. A fearsome river, named after a fearsome saint…

There was no getting around it. The Merchant dismounts, and takes Darian by the reins. “Miklan, let’s go by foot. It’ll be easier for us to pick our way across the weak parts of the bridge.”

Miklan just grunts, and does as she says, dismounting into the slush and taking his horse by the reins. The Merchant had learned in the past few days that his horse’s name was Tobias-- although that fact became rather pathetic when it was only because he addressed the horse more than her. Together, they slog their way through the thick mud and slush that’s been their road for the better part of the week and approach Macuil Bridge, the structure seeming to sigh at their arrival.

The wind howls, and the whole bridge seems to moan in response, swaying as if in a waltz. The Merchant’s guts twist with apprehension, but there really is no other way around. She steps onto the bridge first, testing the wet wood with her weight, and then drawing Darian onto the bridge behind her. The wood sags dangerously, but it holds.

She looks over her shoulder towards Miklan. The man is still looking up at the towering wooden beams above them, eyes locked towards something unseen. “Miklan, when I get a little further ahead, you start coming. Follow my footsteps and we’ll be okay.”

Again, no real verbal confirmation, just a nod. The Merchant turns back towards the other side of the bridge and keeps Darian close at hand. She reaches out with her leg and carefully tests each spot she picks out between snowdrifts and ice chunks, and she’s afraid she’s right when she feared the bridge was in dire need of repair. It probably hadn’t been serviced since last spring, since no construction crews could get out here in the snow.

They’d just have to be careful. Falling through was a very real threat. The Merchant can even see yawning, gaping holes where the icicles underneath had torn their supports clear out with them, and she gingerly guides Darian around them. She then hears the familiar creak of sagging wood; Miklan’s finally joined her on the bridge.

Miklan tests his weight on a sagging portion of wood, jerking his foot back when the soggy wood peels and tears under him. If he had stood on that for a few seconds more, his foot would have likely torn through. The injury doesn’t sound nice; he didn’t want to be picking splinters out of his leg for the next eternity. He sighs, and continues picking his way across the bridge.

It was astounding, what one winter could do to such a mighty structure. Macuil Bridge was one of the largest bridges in the Kingdom, and yet, without regular service, it could be dilapidated in as little as one winter. Miklan almost falls right into one of the gaping holes, a slat torn out by ice, holding onto his horse’s neck with a gasp. That—he’d quite nearly fallen through. With a fall from this height, it might very well be the end of him… and if it wasn’t, the cold water would be.

...He reaches out and presses his foot to an even more rotten part near the hole, as if to test his luck. See how far he could go. The wood begins to splinter with more and more applied weight, and right as it threatens to give way, he pulls back entirely and leans against Tobias’ barrel chest. The dapple leans his neck over his shoulder, and he gives the horse a gentle, comforting pat.

Miklan stands there, staring down past the broken slats, watching the river below writhe with ice and foam. Its churning is almost hypnotic, really… such a beautiful river was hiding deadly ice and even deadlier cold. A white abyss, one that begs and beckons for him to come join it.

_ You are a Crestless, good-for-nothing wretch! _

_ Do you see? This is why your parents decided to foist you onto me and get you out of their house! _

Miklan can still hear those words as plain as day, a shiver crawling up his spine. He had hoped, hoped on hope, even, that his parents would have taken him back home if he had just explained himself. If he’d just begged harder for them not to throw away their eldest son. But hearing his father speak to him like that… it had only cemented the fact that perhaps his parents had never loved him at all. He was just another warm body to turn into an expendable knight.

But he didn’t even get to do _ that _ . If they had turned him into a knight and carted him off towards Fodlan’s Locket, that would have been better than nothing. But they denied him his own birthright, the right to become a Knight of Gautier, and just… sold him off to this woman like he was nothing. For the price she took him on at, it might as well have _ been _ nothing.

And her—he couldn’t wrap his head around the Merchant at all. Nor did he want to. All she was to him was a noble-cozying merchant eager for sales. He wants to run far, far away from her— far from her, far from here, where he could shed this identity and become someone entirely new…

The Merchant’s almost on the other side of the bridge when she hears it— the crack and moan of splintering wood. Tobias makes a terrified whinny and bolts across the bridge, narrowly avoiding sinking his hooves into the rotting wood more than once. The Merchant quickly grabs his reins and tries to calm the great beast down, but when she looks back, she sees… nothing.

She sees nothing, and that’s the problem. Miklan—where was Miklan?

The Merchant’s stomach drops. She abandons the horses and runs to the edge of the bridge, lurching her upper half over the ledge, looking down into the frothing white waters below. Her red eyes scan, desperately looking for something, anything—

And then she sees it. A black gloved hand sinking below the surface of the churning waves.

“** _Miklan_ **!!”

He had fallen. He’d fallen, he’d gone clear through the bridge...! The Merchant grabs the horses and runs clear to the other side, her foot tearing through several layers of wood near where the wood meets the cliffs. She rips her boot free from the splinters and abandons the horses there, scrambling down the cliffside to get to the riverbank. She can’t see anything of him anymore, no red hair, no black hands, nothing.

“Miklan!!” The Merchant screams above the wind’s din, finally getting down to the riverbank and running down its edge. “Miklan, where are you?! _ Miklan _!!”

As if the Goddess had heard her desperate cries, the Merchant catches a glimpse of his red hair, bobbing above the water just a moment before a wave crashes over him. The Merchant wastes no time, and after pulling in a breath, she throws herself into the icy river after him.

The water’s coldness shocks the air right out of her lungs. She knew it was going to hurt, she knew it was going to be cold, but her entire body _ writhes _ in pain. Her heart stutters painfully in her chest, but she must keep going. The Merchant summons all her strength and pulls herself to the surface of the water, letting herself be swept further downstream.

He’d likely gone unconscious upon entry; the water was frigid, and the height had been very high. That’s the only reason she can think of as to why he wasn’t screaming, struggling to get out of the water. Perhaps she couldn’t see him, maybe he was pinned under the waves...

The Merchant sobs out a breath, trying to keep her head above the crashing water. Her chest hurts so much, and she can barely breathe, but she still hasn’t found Miklan. Whatever crossness, whatever irritation she might have still been holding onto for him vanished as soon as she saw his hand disappear into the waves. She has to find him, she has to save him; She can’t apologize to him if he’s dead…!!

She collides into something much softer than the rocks lining the riverbed. With a gasp, the Merchant reaches down and grabs at the thing, finding hair, skin, wet clothes—there he was!! She hauls Miklan up to get his head above the water, no easy feat considering he was dead weight. Kicking her legs as hard as she can, she finally wrenches his head above the surface of the foaming waters, a great gasp filling his lungs.

What the Merchant doesn’t expect is for Miklan to begin struggling in her arms, his elbow slamming into her nose. The shock is so great she lets go of him, and he sinks back under the water. With a cry, she grabs onto him again, trying to pull him back up above the water’s freezing surface, but with what little energy he has, he fights her.

She doesn’t understand, she can’t wrap her head around it—why was he fighting her? She was trying to get him out…! His mind must be addled from the cold, she tries to rationalize as well as her frozen mind can. He’s addled, he’s confused, and he needs to get out of this water…!!

Summoning all her will, the Merchant grabs onto Miklan and turns onto her back, pulling him towards her chest. With hard strokes and kicks, she aims for the river’s edge and attempts to cut across the current, using her floundering traction on the large rocks jutting from the riverbed. Miklan isn’t struggling anymore; in fact, she fears he’s barely conscious. His skin’s bone white, his lips tinged blue, his eyes focused towards nothing at all.

The Merchant’s grip slips, and they both disappear under the water. She has to pull with all her might to get them back over the water’s surface, and the fact that they both might drown here suddenly presents itself to her. He was dead weight, and she was exhausted. If she didn’t get them out soon, both of them would die here in the icy Macuil River. 

She cannot allow that, she can’t, she won’t…!

After what feels like an eternity, the Merchant’s feet make contact with the soft pebble riverbed, signifying they’re now in much shallower water. With a gasp, the Merchant gets upright, her hands grabbing onto Miklan’s armored front, and she drags him across the pebbles and into the shallows of the river. The air bites into her cold, wet clothes and skin, and she has to resist the urge to howl. Blood trickles down from her arms and legs, torn up and battered from the rocks, her nose is broken judging by the blood coming from it, but…

The Merchant gives a few more heaves, and she manages to drag the man from the shallows and onto the pebble and sand beach of the riverside. She quickly kneels and presses on his chest, relieved when the man groans and coughs up a mouthful of water. She turns him onto his side and gives him a few more swift pats, the effort forcing more water from his lungs.

Miklan shudders, and promptly throws up. More water, a good sign… But now came the next problem; both of them were sopping wet, and had been in that icy water for far too long. When she attempts to stand, she promptly stumbles and falls over, coughing violently. They weren’t going to drown… but now freezing to death was a very real possibility.

The Merchant forces herself onto her hands and knees, dragging herself onto her soggy feet. She looks over her shoulder at Miklan, who’s now violently shuddering on the riverside. She has to leave him to go get the horses; she cannot begin to hope to drag him all the way up the hillside. “Miklan, I—I-I’m going to go get Darian and Tobias. I-I’ll be back, I promise.”

Miklan doesn’t say a word. Maybe he’s unconscious. The Merchant staggers away, blowing into her frozen, numb hands, trying to work feeling back into her limbs. She can’t dawdle, she has to hurry…

“Walk,” The Merchant grinds out to herself. She takes one step forward, then another… when she reaches the hilltop, her legs are too weak to carry her up, so she suffices with crawling her way up the hill. Darian and Tobias are still meandering nearby, and she thanks the Goddess for it. Darian knew better than to go off without her, but if they lost Tobias, he’d carry off precious camp supplies.

She reaches up and grabs Tobias’ reins, tying him to Darian’s saddle. Gritting her teeth, the Merchant attempts to pull herself up onto Darian’s back, but her muscles refuse to cooperate. She has to pull him over to a nearby rock to be able to get onto his back, and from there, she guides him towards the gently sloping hillside. Darian carefully picks his way down, Tobias lingering close by, and it’s a relief when they manage to get down. That was good—that meant they could get up.

The Merchant brings the horses as close as she can before she drops from Darian’s back, pulling open Tobias’ packs. She drags out a few furs and a few lengths of rope, stooping and getting Miklan onto his back. He groans softly, the only sign she has that he’s still with her, and she begins the swift work of peeling all his armor off.

Her fingers are still so numb, she can barely make the buckles cooperate. She’s losing precious time trying to fumble with the buckles, so she gives up and slices through the leather strips with her knife. She’ll replace the armor, she’ll buy him new things, but she can’t buy him back if he dies from the cold. She makes quick work of his clothes too, stripping him completely bare and shucking the wet clothes away from her.

Miklan mumbles, hands clawing at himself. “M’clothes,” He slurs, brown eyes trying to focus on something. “W-what the hell are you doing…?”

“Stop talking,” The Merchant says a little more harshly than she wants, spreading a fur and quickly rolling him onto it, wrapping it taut around him and tying it closed with a rope. “You’re half frozen to death. We have to get you to town or else you’re going to die out here.”

“You shoulda...” Miklan coughs so hard he pukes, bile dribbling down his chin. He’s so far gone he babbles nonsense at her, his gaze focusing on her for just a moment. “Y-You shoulda just...”

“Didn’t I tell you to hush?” The Merchant’s voice warbles, and she sits Miklan up. “Hush and rest.”

And so he does. He goes silent, too tired to protest and barely awake enough to keep his eyes open. The Merchant turns to Darian and gets the great beast to kneel, gathering Miklan up in her arms and hefting him up onto the white horse’s back. She grimaces; now she had to get into the saddle too. Even with Darian at a kneel, her knees feel like gelatin, and pulling herself up seems like an enormous task.

Bracing herself, she grabs hold of her saddle horn and forces herself to swing a leg over, just barely able to get herself back on. The Merchant grabs the other length of rope she pulled out, and loops it around them a few times, cinching it tight. Like that, they can share body heat and avoid freezing on the way to the village. With a kick, Darian pulls himself up to his hooves, and the Merchant guides him back towards the hill.

“Where’s the nearest town?” The Merchant half asks herself past her chattering teeth, and half asks the Goddess. “Goddess, don’t let it be too far away…”

A quick check of her map shows that there should be a decent sized town just a few miles away. With nothing to lose, the Merchant spurs Darian, and they take off down the tree lined road. Miklan slumps against her back, his head resting against her shoulder, and she prays she can get him to a warm inn soon before she passes out in the saddle. She had avoided inns thus far to save money, but both of them needed a warm fire to dry off by...

An agonizing half hour later, the Merchant sees the walls of the town, bathed in twilight. She quickly spurs Darian on, crossing the small drawbridge that kept the town tight and cozy at night, quickly pointing at the nearest townsperson, a young man with close cropped brown hair.

“Excuse me!” She calls out, grabbing at Miklan as he starts to slump over more. “I need to get to the inn! Can you tell me where it is?”

Wordlessly nodding, the man points down the road and to a large building flocked with blue trim, a delicate sign painted in green paint advertising their services. Thanking him, she rides up the cobblestone roads and tears at the rope holding the two of them together. She dismounts, gathers Miklan up, yells at a nearby man that there’s a gold coin in it for him if he takes their horses to the town stables and brings her back the bags, and pushes the inn door open.

The Merchant’s arms tremble from the exertion of holding the teen, and her calves burn, but he wasn’t going to be walking like this any time soon. When she stumbles inside, the bored woman behind the counter gives a yelp, clutching at her large bosom. Before she can get a word out, the Merchant spits out, “I-I need a room with a fireplace; urgently. My guard fell into the river and he needs to warm up.”

With a mute nod, the large woman hustles out from behind the counter, and guides the Merchant down a few halls. She opens up the door to a room on the far end, and the Merchant wastes no time in getting Miklan onto the single bed inside, propping his head up on the pillows and turning back to the woman, dumping half her purse into her hands.  
  
“How long will this get me? I can’t be blasted to count right now, my hands are too numb...”

“Erm,” The woman stutters, her red forehead dotted with sweat. “I think two months?”

“Keep it all for now,” The Merchant says, shrugging her backpacks off. “I’ll collect whatever I don’t use later. There a doctor in this town?”  
  
“Yes, but he just went down to Fhirdiad to go--”   
  
“Tell you what,” The Merchant interrupts. “You take some of that spare gold and run yourself down to the market. Go and grab me several waterskins, some blankets, some fresh meat and vegetables and a big bottle of some kind of hot sweet drink. I’ve got to get my guard warmed up.” 

The woman gapes at her for a moment, but she must look so fearsome with her bloodied face and arms and wet clothes that she just nods, and disappears out the door. The Merchant leaves only long enough to go pay the man outside for taking care of her horses, and grabs their bags from him, hauling them inside.

Goddess, she’s so cold. She won’t be much help to Miklan if she passes out herself. The Merchant closes the door and quickly strips out of all her wet, cold clothes, tossing them by the fireplace and shimmying herself into fresh clothing, a feat considering how hard she’s shaking. She ties her white hair up with a big comb to keep it out of the way, and immediately sets about stoking the fire to quickly heat up the room.   
  
Next, she turns back to Miklan and pulls the fur away from him, taking a rag from their bags and vigorously scrubbing him down to get him dry. He moans softly when she works his hair, and he swats at her as she goes lower than his waist, some conscious part of him still keenly aware he’s quite nude. “Apologies,” She murmurs, “But this is just to get you dry. Don’t take it personally.”

There’s a knock on the door, and the Merchant’s quick to cover him back up, and take all the supplies the innkeeper offers her. A stack of blankets, three new waterskins, a large bottle of hot honeyed mead and a bag with root vegetables and a whole chicken. She thanks the innkeeper, and without much more thought, the Merchant sets to work on warming the man up.

She goes to the corner, where a wash-basin full of still water waits, and she fills all the waterskins up and places them by the fire to warm up. She then covers Miklan with two of the blankets, then lays the heavy fur on top, bundling it all around him so he can warm. The third blanket’s for herself, wiping her bloody face off with a corner. Now that some of the feeling’s coming back to her, her nose is _ killing _her. And so are all the cuts and bruises the river’s given to her…

Miklan groans, and she’s quick to go get the now warmed waterskins, tucking them between the blankets and arranging them on his chest and belly to get his core warmed up. He tries to turn over and push the weights off of him, but the Merchant pins his shoulders to the mattress, trying to shh him.  
  
“Don’t move,” The Merchant tries to soothe. “You had a rough fall. When you’re warmed up I’ll take another look at you…”

Miklan shudders, and manages to croak out a few words: what he was trying to tell her at the riverside. “...you shoulda j-just... let me drown...”

A distant thought presents itself to the Merchant, one that bothers her deeply; had that fall really been an accident?

“...Nevermind that,” She replies, dashing the thought from mind and turning back towards the fire. “Just rest for now. I’ll get some soup going for us.”

The Merchant manages to procure their cooking pot and her little foldable stand from their bags, pouring some water from one of their drinking skins over the chicken and vegetables. While that boils down, the Merchant tries to convince Miklan to have a few sips of the mead, telling him it’ll warm him up, but he turns his nose up at it after the third sip. She takes a few sips herself, and sits down by Miklan’s bed, sticking a hand under the sheets to see how fast he’s warming up.

He’s still too cold. The Merchant cannot rush the warming process, but if she’s honest, she’s quite frightened. He’d been under for so long… would he truly be okay? And what about her? She was in sorry shape as well, and if something happened to her, then there’d be nobody to watch her business or keep an eye on Miklan...  
  
At this point, she could only trust the Goddess to make them both well. So while she shivers from the lingering cold, she crawls over to the fire, pours a little bit of the now simmering chicken broth into one of their travel bowls, and can only hope that she can get through his stubbornness enough to convince him to indulge in some.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And as soon as he got better, she… she would apologize for sure. That much seemed far overdue by now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Spedira! thanks for making me laugh with your 'lik the bred' limericks.

_And oh, poor Atlas, the world’s a beast of burden you’ve been holding up a long time, and all this longing…_

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169  
Lone Moon, Day 6 _

_The town of Lund_

The Merchant knows things are dire when Miklan begins to cough up bloody, foul smelling phlegm.

“That’s n-not good,” He croaks out past his sore throat, looking down at the disgusting mess on his palm.

“Indeed,” The Merchant murmurs, stomach tight with apprehension. “Lay back down.”

The past two days had been nothing short of a nightmare for both of them. While the Merchant barely managed to get herself warm and mostly functioning again by the end of the first day, Miklan continued to struggle. Her dressing him back into warm clothes didn’t help, nor did food or drink, nor rest, or anything else. She should have known that being submerged in water for so long would have made him ill...

Miklan’s skin burns with fever as the Merchant wipes his brow and neck down with a cool cloth. She had been nursemaid for a while now, but this might be beyond her skill sets. The wracking sound in his lungs as he coughs tells her it’s likely either grippe or pneumonia, and both of those could prove fatal if she let it go unchecked. She’d either have to pay up and go get a doctor from another town, or try and treat it herself…

The red-haired man shakes with coughs, the wheezing in his chest worsening. The Merchant tries to offer him a drink, and he tries to take it, but it comes right back up with another cough. She has to gently pat his back and wait for him to finish heaving into a rag before she can offer it again, and this time, he groans and pushes it away.

“You have to drink,” She tries to reason with him, offering the wheezing man the cup again. “You have to keep taking fluids if you want to get well.”

“W-Why bother if I’m just going to hack it back up?” Miklan groans, curling up under his blanket. His eyes are glazed with the heat of fever, his lips dry and cracked. “My chest h-hurts way too much...”

“All the more reason to stay hydrated.” She replies, pressing the cup to his lips. “Come now, Miklan, please. Just try.”

Miklan glances up at her, as if trying to discern her motives. That feverish thought had presented itself to him a few times over the past two days; why was she expending so much effort on a Crestless hand-for-hire? She could just get another one for less than the expenses she’s put into lodging and keeping him fed.

There are so many things he wants to ask. To make sense of. But right now, the room is spinning something awful and his throat burns with thirst, so he just tries to drink the tea again. He gets a few sips down before the coughs start up again, but the Merchant seems just satisfied even with that.

“You rest now,” She says softly, covering him up with another blanket. “I’ll see if I can’t get something for your cough down at the market.”

What can he say, no, don’t do that, stop spending your precious gold on me? Miklan wants to, but his throat hurts way too much to get out that many words. For now, too tired to fight and argue, he settles into bed and tries to do as she says. Sleep wasn’t the worst thing in the world right now…

As soon as Miklan passes out, the Merchant grabs her purse and slips out of the room, leaving the inn and walking down to the town square. The innkeeper had told her there was an apothecary here, so she should be able to get what she needed from there, Goddess willing. It has been such a long time since she’d taken care of someone, she can barely remember anything that would remotely help…

At this time of night, the market’s starting to slow down, and it’s easy for her to slip between the crowds and find her way to the booth overflowing with cobalt bottles, mesh bags of herbal teas, and large jars of crystalline honey. The booth maiden greets her, and the Merchant begins to scan the products, biting her lip. What on earth did she all need…?

“You got anything in here for grippe or pneumonia?” The Merchant queries, picking up a jar of pickled ginger from Sreng. “My guard’s come down with something awful and I can’t get him to shake it.”

The booth maiden grimaces. “That’s a rough one to remedy, ma’am. Let’s see… I have a few things here.” She pulls out a few small bottles of serums, a few mesh bags of crushed and ground herbs, and concoction of honey, ginger, vinegar and hot peppers. “This is your best bet for herbal remedies. If whoever’s sick really that bad off, you might want to go find a doctor…”

“He’s out of town,” The Merchant replies with her own grimace. “And it’s just me and my guard. If I leave, nobody can take care of him. How much for all of this?”

The booth maiden quickly runs a few numbers in her head, writing out a receipt on a piece of paper. “Well, that’s the best stuff I got, and a lot of it was imported from the Empire, the Alliance, or Sreng, so… That’ll all be… ah, 5,000 gold, ma’am.”

The Merchant chokes. 5,000 gold?! A prince’s sum for foreign tea and honey! She’s almost tempted to leave it all there and walk herself back to the inn empty-handed. She might have better luck waving her hands over his head and chanting prayers than giving him honey and serums that were probably snake oil!

“Could I perhaps interest you in jewelry instead of that gold?” The Merchant tries to haggle her way out of parting with that much gold. “My merchanting name is Lady Witch, and I have all sorts of fine goods, including gold pieces, jewels… surely I can find something for a pretty girl like you.”

The booth maiden raises an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. “I see, I see— but I have no use for jewels, Lady Witch. I’m a simple woman, and once you leave town, I might not be able to find someone who will give me a fair deal for many moons. I’ll only take gold marks; take it or leave it, ma’am.”

The Merchant opens her mouth to deny the sale, but something stops her. She looks down at her hands, still full of product, her teeth worrying her bottom lip once more. If this were her, she’d take the tea and keep going down to Fhirdiad in hopes of finding better products there—or better yet, a healer. But Miklan wasn’t her. And Miklan needed the help _ now. _

The Merchant weighs the two options in her mind; buy the medicine, or try to use…

She shakes her head. No. Not yet. “…I’ll take it.”

The maiden beams and expectantly holds out a hand for payment. The Merchant tries not to cry as she counts out the gold marks, watching them disappear into the maiden’s palm. She was going to save those for goods, but Miklan really needed the medicine. She wasn’t desperately poor just yet—the innkeeper still owed her a little since she wasn’t anticipating on staying for two months—but she’s far poorer than she’s used to being.

The booth maiden wraps everything up in a small wooden box and passes it over to her. “Thanks for your business! I hope your guard gets better.”

“So do I.” The Merchant mutters to herself as she walks herself back to the lantern lit inn, clutching the medicine to her chest. “So do I.”

:-:

Miklan’s awake by the time the Merchant gets back, fitfully tossing and turning under the blankets. He peeks over the edge of the blankets to look at her when she comes in, but just puts his head back down when she goes to the fireplace. The Merchant retrieves the room’s banged up kettle, fills it with fresh water, and tucks it next to the perpetually boiling soup. It was pretty much mush by now, but hey, stew never hurt anybody…

The Merchant digs up wooden cups from a cabinet and spoons a few spoonfuls of the… very interesting smelling honey concoction into one cup and puts a satchel of fenugreek tea into the other. As soon as the kettle whistles, she pulls it from the fire and pours boiling water in each cup. The tea would take a while to steep, but she can give him this… whatever this is.

“Alright,” The Merchant says, sitting on the side of the bed. “Sit up. I have something for your cough.”

Miklan groans, but doesn’t fight her when she slowly pulls him up, propping the pillows up behind him. She stirs the now liquid honey concoction and pulls up a spoonful, holding it out. “Open up.”

He musters up as fearsome of a glare as he can towards her, barely a spark compared to some of the fiery looks he’s given her. But she just presses the spoon to his lips, and eventually, he wraps his lips around it, sipping the liquid down. His brows furrow deeply, and he makes a disgusted sound, but he doesn’t spit it out.

“Good,” The Merchant says, pulling the spoon back and readying another one. “Let’s try for half.”

Miklan’s hand reaches out from under the covers and snatches the cup away from her. He slowly sips at the cup himself, eyeing her with a look that seems to say, _ ‘I’m not a baby, I can do it myself’ _. She allows it; this was the first real show of energy he’d had in a few days. If he could do it, she’d like to encourage it.

The Merchant waits until he’s done sipping at the sickly sweet-hot mixture before passing him the other wooden cup full of tea. She… she wants to talk about what happened at the bridge now, because she feels like if she doesn’t, this lingering tension, this uncertainty, will never be resolved. And after watching him struggle so much over the past two days, she wants to finally be done with it, before anything else can happen.

“You should have been more careful.” She begins, her voice quiet, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with themselves. “This accident has very nearly done you in… You’ve really given me quite the spook.”

  
Miklan stops mid-sip of his tea, and looks up at her with a suspiciously raised eyebrow. She… she really isn't sure if it was an accident or not. She didn’t witness the event, she only heard his senseless babbling after, and that wasn’t enough to confirm nor deny. But what it does tell her was that in that moment, Miklan truly wished to die. The Merchant doesn’t want to add any more insult to injury than this illness already has. She will not judge him; not for that.

“Yeah, yeah,” Miklan mumbles, his voice already sounding a little less hoarse thanks to the honey. “You want me to say sorry?”  
  
“No,” The Merchant shakes her head. “...I’ve just been thinking is all. When you’re well… I want us to continue onward to Fhirdiad together. There’s a large port there, as well as roads to anywhere you could possibly want to go. The world will be at your fingertips.”

Miklan sinks lower into his pillows, suppressing a wet cough into his fist. “Mmgh... What are you getting at?”

The Merchant sighs and turns in her chair, grabbing her personal bag and dragging it to her feet, pulling a tiny quill pen, a small ink block, and a thin taper candle the size of her thumb. She then reaches under her dress and undoes the pouch she keeps especially important papers and her emergency funds in, dumping it all out onto the side table next to his bed.  
  
The Merchant thumbs through the papers until she finds a thick folded set, something Miklan hadn’t seen in almost a month; his sale papers from his parents. The Merchant gathers up the ten 100 mark gold coins that had fallen out with her other belongings, taking his empty cup from him and replacing it with the gold, the coins warm from the contact of their skin.  
  
“Hold that.”

“Uh.” Miklan looks at her, then the gold, then back at her. “O-okay...?”

The Merchant pulls out a blank sheet of paper, and scribbles something across it after getting her quill wet. She takes the nubby little red candle and takes it and the paper to the nearby fire, melting some of the wax and dribbling it onto the paper. She takes off her iron signet ring, emblazoned with a butterfly and the letters LW, and presses it into the wax, bringing it back to the bed.  
  
“Now give me the gold.”

“This is pretty weird, even for you.”  
  
“Just give me the gold, Miklan…”

Miklan pours the gold into her waiting, cupped palms, the Merchant taking the large coins and tucking it back into the pouch. She has him sign the paper she’s been scribbling on, not an easy feat considering his hands are still shaking and the coughing doesn’t help, but when he’s done, the Merchant folds the letter into three neat parts, and passes it to him with two hands.

“And there you have it. You’ve bought your freedom back.”

Miklan blinks. He’s… not sure if he heard her right, or heard her at all. It's entirely likely that this past hour’s been a particularly intense fever dream. He takes the letter from her hands, looking down at it, and trying not to cough all over it. “Wh-- w-what?”

The Merchant leans back in her seat, her fingers now twisting some of her bone-white hair. “...You can’t go back to House Gautier,” She admits, swirling the white strands at her fingertips. “But you clearly are not happy with me. I cannot, in good conscious, own another person, especially since being with me has caused you so much unhappiness. So in the exchanging of funds, you have purchased your life back from me. And… when you are well, once we get to Fhirdiad together, you may go wherever you wish.”

“You--” Miklan can’t find the words. He can’t find the air, either, coughing several times before attempting to speak again. “Y-You’re pulling some kind of sick shit on me, aren’t you, you witch? This how you get your kicks?”

“No,” The Merchant shakes her head. “The paper is legitimate. It’s a release form. Most cities will recognize that signet should you run into any problems.”

Miklan stares at her for a moment. And then he laughs. He laughs so much that he breaks down into disgustingly wet coughing, hacking a few mouthfuls of phlegm up into his nearby rag. His chest feels like he’s stabbed a hot poker into it by the end of it, and he has to wheeze to catch his breath.

“Let’s say you aren’t pulling a shitty joke on me.” Miklan croaks, throwing himself back down into the thin mattress. “W-where am I gonna go? You said it yourself, I can’t go back to House Gautier. And I don’t wanna stay with you. But where will I go? I have no house, n-no money--”  
  
“You’re still a Gautier, an esteemed noble name. You’d be able to get a fine job in an established household here in the Kingdom or in the Empire--”

“L-Let me finish!! I have no money, no place to call home. Where do you suggest I _ go _ ?” Miklan manages to spit that last word out with a haggard cough. “Do you really suggest I go wandering the countryside alone? Go beg households for favors? You’ve got to be out of your mind…!”  
  
The Merchant is quiet for a while. She leans back in her chair, thinking quietly, still twisting her white hair into spirals. “...Why not stay with me for just a while longer? I intend to travel all of Fodlan and the surrounding countries. Maybe you could find somewhere to belong along the way.” 

Miklan stares at the ceiling, his lips trembling with a restrained cough. He seems to be slowing down now, another round of exhaustion from the coughing starting to creep up on him. “Shut up and let me think. M-My head’s too fuzzy to make any thoughts. I’m just gonna wake up and all of this is gonna have been a dream anyway....”

The Merchant inclines her head, a small quirk of a smile on her lips. “Very well. You still have a lot of resting and healing to do, after all. You’ve only just now entered the worst of it, so we have a long ways to go...”

Miklan groans, and turns his head away from her, his hand still clutching his release letter as if hoping it were real and not part of a fever dream. The Merchant is quiet for a moment.

“And… Miklan?”

“What?”

“...I’m sorry. What I said you back at Gautier Manor was cruel and uncalled for. You do not have to forgive me, not at all; I just wanted to express my apologies…”

Miklan snorts. “Good. Because I don’t forgive you.”

“That’s understandable.”

There’s a small pause. Miklan buries himself further into the blankets until only his shaggy ponytail can be seen. “...thanks anyways.”

The Merchant blinks. But then, she smiles, pushing herself out of her chair to stoke the fire.

“Of course.”

:-:

_Imperial Year 1169_  
_Lone Moon, Day 20_  
  
_ The town of Lund_

The innkeeper studies the pile of gold in her hand, trying to judge if it’s the right amount. After a second count, she pours the gold into the Merchant’s waiting hands. She seems quite happy to be rid of them, to be frank. “And… that’ll be it, ma’am. Thanks so much for staying with us.”

The Merchant pockets her returned gold, sighing pleasantly at the feel of a somewhat heavy purse. “Of course. Thanks for having us while we were so ill. Come on, Miklan.”

Miklan grunts and follows her out the door, still moving a bit stiffly in his new armor. The leather was still stiff and unbroken, the plates shining and etched with pretty scrolling. The Merchant felt somewhat obligated to replace the armor she left laying on the riverside, and while Miklan complained up and down about her losing that armor, he’d had it for so long, how could she just leave it there, he did seem somewhat pleased with the new set.

Their horses wait for them outside, tied to a nearby fencepost. Tobias nickers and nuzzles Miklan’s face with his stubbly nose, happy to see him after a two week absence. Miklan plants his face against his long snout, sighing. “Hey, buddy. Never thought I’d miss a horse so much.”

The Merchant chuckles and throws their saddlebags over Darian’s back, tossing him his own bag. “Think you’ll be good to ride for three days? You only got out of bed two days ago...”

Miklan huffs and straps his bags to Tobias, cinching the leather ties. He coughs a little, a leftover from his week and a half long bout of pneumonia, and the week long recovery that followed. “I’d rather be on a horse’s back than be on that damn bed for any longer. I thought I was gonna go insane staring at that ceiling and listening to you repeat ‘stay in bed’!”

“I tried to offer some stories to pass the time,” The Merchant retorts with a raised eyebrow, and he coughs again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, and they were _ boring _.” He replies, swinging himself onto Tobias’ back. “Are we going yet? I want to be outta here as soon as possible. I never wanna come back here again.”

With a chuckle, the Merchant pulls herself onto Darian, pulling her hair up into its bone comb. “Alright, alright. Let’s go.”

Spurring her white horse, the Merchant takes the lead out of the sleepy town, Miklan following at her side. The snow has started to melt in full, clearing the roads and warming the air, and although the paths are still choked with mud, they at least could navigate without getting stuck in snow or blizzards. Soon, spring would be here, and the weather would be even warmer, and the roads would finally be pleasant to travel again.

The morning sun hangs high overhead, and the Merchant smiles a little to herself. Things weren't perfect by any means. But they were better now, and that’s all she wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always to fabulous Spedira! we'll hopefully be all-together at Sakuracon 2020. For more recent cons, I'll be at Kumoricon with my fiancee. come say hi to me if you see me there!

_ And the crown, it weighs heavy, until it's banging on my eyelids, retreating in covers and closing the curtains-- one thing's for certain, a year like this passes so strangely… _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169 _ _  
_ _ Lone Moon, Day 23 _

_ Fhirdiad _

When the Merchant said that they were going to Fhirdiad, Miklan had to admit that perhaps, deep down, he was a little excited. He had never gone to the capital of the Holy Kingdom; not while he had active memory, at least. Glenn always waxed about how wonderful the city was, how noble and amazing its traditions were. Beautiful women waving handkerchiefs to knights leaving the city, proud men sending their sons to be squires, bustling merchants and markets galore…

But now, as the streets crowd with people and as screaming fills the air, Miklan decides that he hates Fhirdiad.

“I should have known it would be crowded,” The Merchant groans, trying to keep an eye on the road to avoid running people over. “It’s the end of the year. People are here for the Royal Address of House Blaiddyd and for all those wretched end of year parties.”

Miklan groans himself, quickly swerving Tobias to the left to avoid smacking an awry youth. He curses and makes a spitting motion towards the city, eyeing Blaiddyd Castle with distaste. “Can we just, y’know, _ leave _? And not stay here with all these people? If I have to listen to this day in and day out, I’m going to join all the screaming kids.”

The Merchant sighs and reaches over to grab his reins, taking them from him and tying them to her saddle to avoid losing him. “Unfortunately no. As much as I hate these wretched crowds too, this is a good sales opportunity. And, should you want to go on without me, you need to wait until the ports and roads aren’t so crowded.”

“I’m not going anywhere with all this bullshit.” Miklan grouses. He leans back in his saddle, arms firmly crossed. “I’ve got a good feeling Fhirdiad and all its knights aren’t really for me, but I’m in no rush to leave in these crowds.”

The Merchant nods, and steers Darian through the crowds of people, carts, and other horses. “We’re almost at the Merchant’s Guild. We can get a room there pretty easy, if Anna’s been upkeeping the books.”

“So who’s this Anna?” Miklan asks, still leaning back in the saddle as if wishing he could melt out of it. “You’ve mentioned her once or twice on the way here and I’m no clearer on who she is.”

“Anna’s the most connected, talented merchant in all of Fodlan!” The Merchant exclaims, eyes shining with admiration. “She could sell water to a drowning man and convince the grisliest miser to part with his coin. She runs the Fodlan Merchant’s Guild and was one of my first investors. When I came here to Fodlan, she took me under her wing and taught me everything she knows, so I owe a lot to her.”

“Huh,” Miklan says, having tuned out halfway through that spiel. “Interesting.”

A towering, multileveled building made of stone appears, elegantly carved gargoyles keeping their watch from their towering posts. The Merchant dismounts, prompting Miklan to do the same, taking their bags off and passing their reins off to a groomsman. The Merchant motions for Miklan to follow her, and they pass through a graceful stone archway and into the building.

Warm air blows over them, the inside hall lit with great fires and cheery lanterns. The Merchant checks in at the front desk and returns without their bags, but with two keys to a room. “Anna’s here,” She says, more animated than Miklan’s really seen. “Thank the Goddess for it, because this place is packed, but she saved a room here for us. I’m going into the great hall to look for her.”

“Any possible way I can just go hide in our room? I don’t want to be around a bunch of these stuffy merchants.”

The Merchant passes him one of the keys, and then pushes a small pouch at him. “Here’s your key. If you wander out without me to go explore, here’s a bit of gold. I’ll be busy with Anna for a while, so don’t feel the need to wait on me for food.”

“Yeah, yeah, _ ma _ ,” Miklan sighs, pocketing the cash and the key. He coughs a bit, and then grimaces, rubbing his side. “This rib’s been killing me, so I’m just gonna go sleep.”  
  
The Merchant nods. “Of course. I’ll be back this evening.” 

Miklan disappears up the stone stairs, following the signs for the guest rooms. The Merchant, in the meanwhile, wanders further into the halls, eagerly looking for that familiar head of vibrant red hair. There’s already a lot of merchants supping in the great hall, bustling conversations about the various holiday markets-- she hears one merchant proudly boasting he’d won a slot in the lottery-market four years in a row now-- but there’s no sign of Anna just yet.

There’s a raucous laugh across the hall, followed by the sound of a hand slapping a table. Ah, there she was, she knew that laugh anywhere. The Merchant makes a beeline for the back of the room, where a small woman with dark magenta hair is speaking with a group of merchants, obviously making bawdy jokes by the sound of the laughter.

“I see you’re having fun without me.” The Merchant calls when she’s a few paces away. The woman with dark pink hair looks up, her lips splitting into an enormous grin.

“Why, if it isn’t Lady Witch!” Anna responds, pushing herself up from her chair to come give the brown-skinned woman a hug. She pulls back and claps her on the shoulders, her nose wrinkled. “Woof, you smell like the rear end of a horse! I’d say that’s an upgrade from last time.”  
  
“And you look like you failed in dyeing your hair,” The Merchant retorts, all in good fun. “ _ Again. _”

Anna purses her lips and defensively strokes her ponytail. “I think magenta’s a _ charming _color.”

With another laugh, the Merchant comes and sits down at the table, the other group starting to disperse to go get supper. Anna slides herself to the seat across, lacing her fingers and grinning at her. “You’re late, Lady Witch! I was expecting you here weeks ago.”

The Merchant sighs, taking her hair out of its pinned up bun and letting it tumble down her back. “I sent you a letter explaining why before I left Lund.”

“A letter can only do so much.” Anna leans in, cocking her head. “Why don’t you start from the beginning? I’m most curious as to how you managed to _ own _ a Gautier nobleman.”

So, the Merchant recounts the story, starting from the events of early Pegasus Moon. She describes the sales there (which Anna’s well pleased with), the contract she had purchased Miklan under, her visit to the Fraldarius home, her return to Gautier Manor, and then their accident at Macuil River and their stay in Lund. By the end of it, Anna’s shaking her head, whistling lowly.  
  
“Both of you could have died at Macuil River,” Anna says severely. “I don’t know enough about Miklan to care too much just yet, but losing you… well, for one, it’d put a huge dent in my coffers and I’d hate that.”  
  
The Merchant wrinkles her nose. “Thanks.”

“But I really do care for you,” Anna quickly follows up with, taking one of the Merchant’s hands. “You’re the best pupil I’ve ever had and it’d kill me if I lost you.”

Anna sighs, leaning her cheek on her free hand, studying her. “Do tell me about Miklan though. I’ve only sold at the Gautier house once, and that was a _ long _ time ago.”

“He’s… interesting.” The Merchant admits, waving down a wandering barmaid and taking a mug of hot honeyed mead from her. She takes a deep sip of the hot drink, sighing pleasantly as it warms her insides. “He’s loud, brash, and angry, and I can’t bring myself to fault him for any of it. Whenever I wake, I half expect him to be gone, but he’s… still with me thus far.”

“It is a big scary world for people to be alone in.” Anna muses, taking the Merchant’s mug and taking her own sip from it. “Once he gets his footing, he’ll probably head out. He’s still a Gautier in name, he’ll have no trouble finding employment in other noble houses.”

“I’m expecting him to jump ship when I go back to Enbarr.” The Merchant says, red eyes cast off towards one of the roaring fires in the hearth. “The Adrestian Empire’s much different than the Holy Kingdom. He’ll probably be more comfortable here in the Kingdom.”

“Enbarr’s not a good place to be at right now,” Anna warns. “You heard about what happened with House Ordelia, right? And House Hrym?”

“How could I not hear about such grisly business?” The Merchant grimaces. “That rebellion’s a large reason I left the Empire in the first place. I was waiting for the political reforms to calm down before I returned to Enbarr.”

Anna leans back in her seat, her fingers drumming her cheek. “You’re gonna have to wait a good, long while. I hear there’s rumors of a coup.”

“A... a coup? Against Ionius IX?”

“Well, you know, I’ve heard that Duke Aegir’s already angry at Ionius IX for the power centralization policy he put in place back in 1165. The revolt House Hrym threw hasn’t helped-- and neither has treatment of House Ordelia.” Anna sighs and takes a steep sip of the Merchant’s mead. “If I were you, I’d stay within Holy Kingdom boundaries for the next few years. Wait for all this unrest to calm.”

The Merchant shakes her head, taking her mead back and polishing it off. “What a shame. I was really looking forward to going back to Enbarr. Is there anywhere _ else _ I need to worry about being?”  
  
“Well,” Anna replies, leaning in with a sordid grin. “That’ll cost you.”  
  
“Forget it then. I’ll take my chances on the road.”

“You’re so stingy!” Anna laughs. She laces her fingers together again, red eyes sparkling with mirth. “But I _ will _tell you a little secret. You’re my best pupil, so I’ll indulge you in some confidential information.”

“You _ always _say that and then you shake me down for gold after.”

“Not this time, because if this all goes according to plan, both of us will be _ swimming _ in it. You know Duscur, right?”  
  
The Merchant nods. How could she have not heard of the beautiful mountain country? “I have goods from that country right now. Why?”

“Because they’re about to experience a revitalization like no other. The Holy Kingdom’s been trying to get cozy with Duscur for a while now, yeah? They have a lot of really good natural resources, like, a _ lot _ of good iron and copper. Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but they say there’s a _ river _ of gold veins near Sacred Gwenhwyvar.”  
  
The Merchant’s mouth goes dry from the possibilities of that statement. All that gold… “How much are we talking?”  
  
“Enough to make Duscur one of the most powerful countries around Fodlan. _ That _much gold.”

The Merchant shudders in anticipation. “...When are they starting on the mining projects?”  
  
“It’s already started. The tribes are holding their annual meeting on the 10th of Harpstring Moon to discuss who they’ll want to do business with. I’ll be first in line-- and you should come too. I don’t have any more room on my boat, since you were _ late _to that party, but if you get there before the 10th, I’ll gladly recommend you.”

The Merchant’s heart is pounding. The room seems to be spinning around them. The opportunity’s astounding; merchant ties in Duscur, gold flowing without end… “You-- you mean it?”

“You’ll owe me for the rest of your life, but I really do mean it.” Anna grins, barely able to contain her excitement. “We’ll be _ rich, _Alie, rich!”

The Merchant shhs here, looking around to make sure no one else was listening in. “Don’t call me that,” She says, a shudder running up her spine. “Not here. But-- yes, yes, I’ll come! Miklan and I will take the caravan route around the coastline and cross Sacred Gwenhwyvar.”  
  
“Perfect!” Anna slaps the tabletop with a hand, pushing herself up. “It’s a done deal! Me and another small group are leaving on the 2nd of the Great Tree Moon. You’d better get going as soon as the year’s end is over-- it’s over three weeks from here to Duscur in good conditions.”

Anna pulls herself away from the table, and is about to head out to go grab her books, but something stops her. “Oh, wait,” She says, turning back to the Merchant and fishing a letter out of her bag. “This is for you too. You owe me a _ lot _for this one, since I put your name in on good faith that you’d be here for the year end lottery-market.”

The Merchant cocks an eyebrow, taking the letter from Anna. There’s a brilliant blue wax seal on the back, emblazoned with the Crest of Blaiddyd. “You-- you put me in the lottery to sell to the King’s household?”  
  
“You bet.” Anna’s eyes twinkle. “And you got in. Half of what you make there’s mine in return for my good word, you hear?”

The letter trembles in the Merchant’s hands as she tears open the envelope, pulling the contents out to look at. There it is, the stationary of the Royal House, signed by the Head of Commerce, Grand Duke Rufus Blaiddyd. “Of-- o-of course. I-I need to go make sure I have decent stock.”

A thought hits her, and the Merchant quickly chases after Anna. “H-Hey, wait, where can I borrow some formal men’s clothes?”

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1169 _  
Lone Moon, Day 25

_ Blaiddyd Castle courtyard  
_

“Can you remind me why _ I’m _ here again?” Miklan groans as the Merchant adjusts the embroidered collar of his jacket. He’s cleaner than he has been in a few weeks, his hair combed back and tied with a ribbon, and his neck dabbed with peppermint oil. His armor gleams brightly, freshly polished, and he flexes his fingers in these new leather gloves. “I feel ridiculous in all this. I’d much rather be back at the Guild...”

“And miss the opportunity to meet King Lambert himself?? I think not.” The Merchant says sharply, adjusting his cravat and taking the opportunity to tuck a flower his lapel.  
  
The courtyard around them bustles with activity as merchants and royal house servants ready tables and chairs, glittering jewels and fine weaponry already on display at completed tables. “I don’t like being in silk as much as you, but we need to look our best and make our best impressions. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance that you can brag about to future employers.” The Merchant finishes, smoothing his wild red hair out. "Now, come help me unload."

Miklan mumbles about feeling like a clown, but he at least helps her unload some of her goods, laying weapons against a provided armor rack. For the past day, the Merchant had been running around the city like a chicken with its head cut off, writing out lists of goods and linens to bring, how to lay out her table, things that just made Miklan’s head spin. He had been happy to stay in bed with the Merchant Guild’s free mead and stew, but she had _ insisted _he come with her. And he couldn’t exactly say no when she asked him to come, and then dragged him right out the door without regard to the actual answer.

The Merchant’s woven crown of carnations slips from her head, the woman cursing softly and quickly pushing it back onto its nest of braids and pins as she lays out a few more rosaries and rings. She lays a few garlands of fresh flowers and pine around the perimeter of her table, lights a few tapered candles, and takes a few paces back, trying to see how the table looks from a distance. “Miklan, how’s that look?”  
  
“Like a table full of flowers and shiny bits.” He deadpans. 

“Good enough!” The Merchant takes whatever she’ll get, adjusting a few pairs of delicate lace gloves and checking over the weapon rack once more. She had four spears, a shield, three beautiful daggers, one sword, two staves and four spellbooks. That ought to be enough for the Royal Household. “King Lambert will come through the market first and open it up with his blessing, and then he’ll take a look around. Probably won’t buy much. The Knights and Household will follow, then there’s a meal after. Think you can live through all of that?”  
  
“As long as I don’t have to talk to anybody, whatever.” Miklan takes a seat behind the table, near the weapon rack. He picks up a spear leaning against the rack, and the little roll of tools he’d been using to make engravings on the shaft. “I’ll just be right here.”

The Merchant opens her mouth to respond, but the blowing of trumpets nearly spooks both of them out of their skins. Miklan’s up on his feet in a moment, as is everybody else, a hushed silence falling over the sunny courtyard.

Two knights in shining armor, their capes a deep azure, open up the great doors that lead the courtyard to the inside of the castle. A tall blonde, bearded man emerges with great fanfare from the dim castle, a finely woven crown of calla lilies adorning his head. Merry blue eyes look over the bustling market, and every person there sinks down into a bow or curtsy-- even Miklan sinks down to size pretty quickly.

A little boy of about seven holds his hand, his golden hair pulled back and neatly tied with a ribbon, a single calla lily tucked behind his ear. His other hand nervously clutches a basket of beautiful blue roses, a signature of the Blaiddyd House, probably gifts for the merchants. Both he and his father are dressed in rich blues and wintery silvers, and the whole courtyard looks up towards these two ethereal figures, wonder in their eyes.  
  
“Friends,” King Lambert greets, holding a hand of blessing over the crowd. “Thank you for joining us here at Blaiddyd Castle for the 7th Annual Year End Market. My son Dimitri and I are overjoyed to see so many familiar faces-- and some new ones too. I am pleased that we’ve been able to host another market, as a good show of faith between the nobility, and the traveling merchant class. You bring with you many fine goods from all over the world, and many enchanting stories as well. I cannot wait to hear them all.”

Squeezing Dimitri’s hand, Lambert lets go of his son and holds both hands over the crowd now, smiling down at them as if they were old friends. “Now, let us take a moment to thank the Goddess for Her great bounty, for the end of this year, and for the glory and peace of the coming one. May She, the Saints, and all those who have pleased Her throughout the ages smile down upon us and watch over us in the coming year. We ask this in Her name, through our Savior, Seiros, unified together in holiness forever and ever…”

The courtyard responds with a murmured amen, many drawing the crossing V over their chests. The courtyard bursts into song and speech once more as Lambert and Dimitri descend the stairs with their knights, shaking hands with a few nobles poised at the front of the garden. The Merchant quickly turns around and double-checks the table, ensuring everything looks perfect, biting her lower lip while Miklan decides to look busy, taking his little pet project up once more to polish the new engravings.  
  
“Relax, Lady Witch,” A familiar voice says, Anna slinging an arm around her fur trimmed shoulders. “Everything looks fine. Even your guard looks as fresh as a springtime bouquet!”  
  
Miklan glowers at her, immediately ruining the illusion of poised nobility. Anna laughs and adjusts her crown of bright red roses, swirling in the silver silk gown she’s wearing. “What do you think? I turned out all the stops for this market!”  
  
“Don’t you always?” The Merchant teases, taking a moment to adjust the fit of her bodice. “You’re so calm and collected. I don’t know how you do it; I haven’t even made eye contact with His Majesty and my hands are quaking!”

Anna laughs more at her, slapping her on the back. “Loosen up! You’re more wound up than an executioner’s noose, and that’s saying something! It’s a _ market _, not an examination. His Majesty will give you their gifts, smile and nod, and walk off. That’s it, I promise! The real fun is when the Royal Household blows through and cleans you out of all your stock.”

The Merchant grimaces, thinking about the gold she still owes Anna. “You’re still taking half my gold, aren’t you.”  
  
“It was a deal, after all.” Anna giggles, winking. “I have to get back to my table now. Just be relaxed, calm, and _ enjoy it _ ! You’re in the presence of a king and the cutest little prince there is! Just smile and act natural.” 

Anna waves to Miklan, who soundly ignores her, and she returns to her table just down the way from theirs. The Merchant blows out a breath and tries to do what Anna said; just relax. They’ll come and go in a matter of minutes; the gift giving, polite questions, and a goodbye. That’s it.

Lambert and Dimitri take their time in visiting each table, Dimitri shyly handing over stems of bright blue roses to each merchant. Women fawn over the little prince while the menfolk boast proudly of Lambert’s recent accomplishments in Sreng. The Merchant hears his hearty laugh come closer and closer, and she swears she’s sweating like a sinner in church. Miklan looks up from the spear, the polishing cloth coming to a still, his brows furrowed at her completely obvious nervousness.  
  
“You’re gonna pass out before he even gets here and embarrass both of us.” He calls to her.  
  
“I will not,” The Merchant retorts sharply, straightening her back. 

“It’s not that big a deal,” Miklan sighs, rolling his eyes. “You’re trying to suck up way too hard, as usual.”

“This is not your parents, this is the _ King, _ ” The Merchant hisses, red eyes locked on the still approaching royal family. “I have to make a good impression. His word alone could make or break me.”  
  
“Is that _ really _ such a big deal right now?? If you’re gonna focus so hard on sucking up and trying to impress ‘em, they’re gonna think you’re a blowhard like half the people here.” Miklan motions with a hand to the booth currently trying to smooze more time with the royal family. “He probably doesn’t even wanna be here. Can you imagine how boring it must be to have to make small talk with fifty different merchants??” 

The Merchant opens her mouth to retort, but, the king and the prince are at the table next to theirs. She shoots Miklan a sharp look, and with a sigh, he stands and puts the spear down, coming around to her side to properly greet the royal family. Despite his gripes, even Miklan knew the importance of when to comply, and when to complain.

Finishing up with the table, Lambert turns to face the Merchant and Miklan. He smiles in greeting, and the Merchant curtsies deeply, Miklan bowing-- perhaps not as deep as he should, but he bows nevertheless. “Ah,” Lambert says, blue eyes sparkling. “You two are new here. I think I’d remember a pair with such vibrantly shaded hair.”  
  
Miklan manages to mask a grimace. The Merchant flushes, and emerges from her curtsy. “Y-Yes, Your Majesty, this is our first year here. My merchanting name is Lady Witch, and this is my… my guard, Miklan.”  
  
“Lady Witch?” Lambert’s eyebrows arch in recognition. “Ah, I’ve heard of you from Rodrigue. He helped you get your business off the ground, did he not?”  
  
“Yes, Your Majesty,” The Merchant stammers, her face now very red. Rodrigue actually spoke to the king about her?? “Duke Rodrigue has been incredibly generous to me. I am honored that he thinks so highly of me.”

Lambert chuckles, and pats Dimitri on the back. The small boy shyly takes a few steps forward, and after a repeat of bowing, he reaches into his basket and offers the Merchant a blue rose. The Merchant kneels and takes hers, smiling softly at the prince. “Thank you, Your Highness. These roses are the same color as your cape, aren’t they?”  
  
Dimitri giggles softly, looking back at his father for reassurance. When he nods, he reaches up and passes a rose to Miklan, pressing it into his gloved palm. Miklan closes his gloved hand around the rose, seemingly fumbling with words for a moment. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” He finally manages to muster out, obviously not used to speaking so formally.

The Merchant chokes, absolutely mortified. “M-Miklan, it’s ‘Your Highness’, not--”  
  
She’s interrupted by Lambert’s hearty laugh, a genuine smile splitting across his lips. “You see that, son? You’re so strong they already think you’re king!”

Miklan flushes deeply, but Dimitri just softly giggles, a smile finally breaking through his nervous demeanor. With that, the two of them return behind their table, and wait for the royals to finish looking at their goods. While Lambert politely browses the elaborate rosaries on the left hand side of the table, Dimitri leaves his basket of flowers and weaves behind the table, looking up at the weapons with wonder on his face. Miklan spots this, and fumbles for a few more words. “You, erm-- do you want to look at something, Your Highness?”

Dimitri nods, and looks back to the weapons, standing on the very tips of his toes to point at a sheathed dagger, its handle wrapped with blue. “That one.” He says, softly. “Can I see that one?”

Miklan looks back to the Merchant, suddenly flustering. “What do I do??”

She motions for him to shut up and get the prince what he wants, the red haired man fumbling with the rack for a moment before he pulls the dagger down from its position, kneeling and presenting it to the boy. “Be careful, it’s really sharp.”

Dimitri’s small hands turn the blade over several times, enraptured by the detail on its wide golden hilt. He grasps the handle and slowly, smoothly pulls it from its sheath, oohing softly at the silver glimmer of the blade. He turns it over easily in his hands, looking at his reflection in the steel.  
  
“Do you like that one, son?” Lambert asks him, a folded red rosary in his gloved hand. Dimitri nods, and puts the dagger back into the sheath, coming around the table and holding it up to his father.  
  
“May I have it?” Dimitri asks, the wonder still in his big, baby blue eyes. “It’s lovely.”  
  
“Indeed it is. And I think it’s time you started wearing a blade at your hip, hmm?” Lambert reaches into his coat pocket and takes out an elaborately embroidered pouch, pouring a small handful of gold into his palm. “How much for the dagger and the rosary, Lady Witch?”  
  
The Merchant looks absolutely astounded, looking back at Miklan for a moment, and then back at Lambert. “T-Together, Your Highness, I believe it’s 3,000 gold.”

Lambert counts out the gold, and pours it into the Merchant’s palm. “There you are, and a little extra. Thank you kindly for your time and all your efforts to better the Holy Kingdom. Here’s hoping you’ll be back next year with a lance for Dimitri!”

Lambert stoops and helps Dimitri slide the dagger into the empty holster on his hip, the blue sheathed dagger looking quite handsome on the finely tooled leather belt. Dimitri takes his basket of roses, and after a third and final round of bowing, the little prince waves goodbye, and he and his father move on to the next table.

The Merchant takes a step back, and turns to Miklan, grabbing him by the shoulders. “You sold the prince a dagger,” She says in wonder, red eyes wide. “You sold the High Prince a dagger!”

“It’s just a dagger!” Miklan tries to retort, his face still red. “He’ll put that thing in a chest and forget about it in a day!”

“Yes, but look!” She points at the royal family, watching as Dimitri looks down at his shiny new blade, running his hand appreciatively over its hilt. When women fawn and ask him where he got such a pretty thing, he motions back to their table. “They know that _ you _ sold that to him! _ My _ dagger’s on his hip-- that’ll bring so much traffic to our table!”

“Oh, Goddess, no,” Miklan groans, quickly getting back into his seat, out of sight. “I just gave it to him! I didn’t do anything except embarrass myself!”  
  
“You made His Majesty laugh! Really, truly laugh! I think that’s an accomplishment all on its own.” The Merchant insists, beaming brightly. She looks back to the gold Lambert gave her, resting in a neat pile behind the flowers, and she sweeps the gold up into her palm.  
  
“Here, Miklan,” The Merchant says, coming to his chair and pouring 2000 of the gold into his hands. “This was your sale. That’s your money.”  
  
“What.” Miklan stares down at the gold incredulously. 

“I mean it. You’re the one who convinced him to buy it, so it’s your money. You’ll need as much of it as you can get when you set off on your own, right?”  
  
Miklan stutters, his lip curled back in a scowl. “No, I’ll just go forage the wilds for locusts and honey, as Seiros did in her time in the Plains! Of course I’ll need the money, geez…” 

Miklan pockets the gold, sitting back as the market heats up with activity after the royal family departs. He watches the Merchant’s back, her swaying white hair as she moves from one end of the table to another-- although he stutters and drops his spear when a man asks him about a sword on display.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, and by the end of it, the Merchant’s packing up what’s left of her goods. Just a few things remain, and Miklan’s busy running his now ungloved hand through the delightful pile of gold in the Merchant’s lockbox, savoring the feeling of the cool metal against his skin. His own purse weighs heavy from other weapon purchases, but he swears that the 2000 gold for Dimitri’s dagger weighs the most.

The merchants all begin to take down their racks, their goods, all their signs. Anna approaches their table as the Merchant folds up the lace tablecloths, sitting down on the edge of it and expectantly holding out a hand.  
  
“Alright, day’s over,” Anna says pleasantly, an evil glimmer in her eye. “Now pay up.”

The Merchant sighs and goes over to the lockbox, taking it away from Miklan and sliding it over to Anna. “Take your half, you harpy.”

Anna gasps at the pile of gold, a tremble running up her spine. “Look at _ that _,” She breathes, running a hand through the pile. “Oh, you made some good sales today. I’ve taught you so well!”

As Anna casually helps herself to the lockbox, shoveling handfuls into her purse, Miklan turns to start taking down the weapon rack. Someone clears their throat behind him, a familiar voice floating over his shoulder. “I hope I’m not too late to buy myself a treat. I was on patrol all day long and only now just got home.”  
  
Miklan turns around, his brow furrowed incredulously. No, he hadn’t heard wrong, that was… “Glenn??”  
  
Glenn smiles and gives Miklan a little salute, his steel blue eyes crinkled up in a smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here, of all places, and still with Lady Witch at that!” He gives her a nod, although Miklan does note the grimace on his face upon seeing her. “I thought you would have been long gone by now…”  
  
“Don’t give ‘er any more lip, I’m a free man now,” Miklan mumbles, pulling a sword down from its rack. “I’m just making some funds so I can head off on my own.”

Glenn’s eyebrows raise almost into his hairline, looking between the two. “Ah-- truly? I’m sorry for my rudeness then, Lady Witch.”  
  
The Merchant waves a hand, shoving Anna off of her table when she starts shoveling gold that _ isn’t _ hers into her purse. “Think nothing of it. You’re not too late to buy, you know, I haven’t closed the lockbox yet. Anything you see?”  
  
Glenn hmms, studying the wares still laid out across the now bare table. His eyes roam up to the weapons, and he says spots the spear leaning against the rack, his eyes lighting up, “You know, I think I’m in need of a new spear. I like the one with the carvings on the blade.”  
  
“That’s your little project, Miklan.” The Merchant says. “It’s your sale. Go ahead and complete it.”

Miklan mumbles a little, but he turns and picks the spear up, presenting it to Glenn for him to study. Glenn whistles and turns the spear over several times in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship of the blade. “How much?”  
  
The Merchant doesn’t supply a price. Miklan flounders, guessing that she’s making him do it. “Uh-- 2,000.” 

Glenn smirks and tucks the spear into his elbow, taking out his purse and counting out the coin. He pours it into his hands, giving him another salute as he steps back with the spear, admiring the elaborate carvings. “Thanks for your business, Miklan. You actually look pretty good behind a merchant’s table.”

Miklan scowls hard enough to curdle milk, a flustered blush crossing his cheeks. He grabs for the pile of folded linens at the end of the table, tossing the whole lot at the now laughing knight. “Get out of here, you insufferable fool! If I’m lucky, I’ll never have to see your face again!”  
  
“You wound me!” Glenn clutches at his chest. “I shall never see my friend ever again! Banished by cruel words! Oh, the humanity…” 

Glenn laughs and straightens himself out quickly, smiling at Miklan. “Seriously, though-- send a letter to Fraldarius Manor when you get settled in, wherever you go. The door is always open for visits too. Oh, Lady Witch, Father’s been despondent ever since you left, so you need to come visit us again yourself.”  
  
“Oh, Rodrigue…” The Merchant sighs. “Thanks, Glenn. I’m off to Duscur in a few days, so it might be another year or so before I come back to that side of the country.”  
  
“He’s not gonna like hearing that,” Glenn shakes his head. “But I’m happy I got to see the two of you here. And I’m happy things got worked out between you two. Really. So, wherever the Goddess leads us, I hope to see you two there.”  
  
Miklan remains oddly mute, after his outburst. When Glenn turns to walk away, he suddenly snaps his head up. "Hey, uh, Glenn--"

Glenn turns back to him. "Yeah?"  
  
"I, uh," The words feel odd, fumbling on his lips. "I'm-- I'm sorry for yelling at you. At Fraldarius. You were just trying to help."  
  
Glenn blinks, then laughs, rubbing the back of his head. "I never thought I'd hear an apology ever fall off your lips! I appreciate it though, Miklan, I really do. All's forgiven. Now, I actually gotta get back to my post."

He turns, and waves to them as he walks away, spinning his new purchase in his hand. "Farewell!"

The Merchant waves goodbye to him, stooping and starting to gather up all the gold that Anna spilled, despite all her protesting. Miklan turns back and resumes pulling things off of the weapon rack, his shoulders still scrunched up under his heavy coat and armor.

“You know, Miklan,” The Merchant says, smiling at him and she closes and locks their lockbox. “That spear, when you started, couldn’t have been more than 1,000 gold. But when you started carving on it, you changed the value. Just by being yourself, you completely transformed that item and made it even more valuable to Glenn.”

Miklan groans, picking up the now unfolded and messy tablecloths and starting to refold them. “Goddess, you witch, it’s not that deep! It was just some carvings, a stupid project.”

“One that pocketed you extra gold,” She points out. “Maybe that can be a little side project of yours until we part ways.”

Miklan just grunts, puts the tablecloths back on the table, and begins to take apart the weapon rack. They remain quiet for a few moments, the Merchant zipping the leftover rosaries into a beautifully embroidered pouch.  
  
“You’re still flushed,” The Merchant notes with a tiny smile hidden behind her white hair.  
  
“_No I’m not_!!” Miklan howls.

But he is.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a nice little break to work on cosplay for Kumoricon! now it's time to write more! thanks Spedira!

_ I swallow the sound and it swallows me whole until there’s nothing left inside my soul, as empty as that beating drum, but the sound has just begun... _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1170 _ _  
_ _ Great Tree Moon, Day 2 _

_ Port of Fhirdiad  
_

“Goodbye!” The Merchant yells to the howling wind, praying her voice will carry to the sailing ship. “Take care, Anna! Safe travels! See you in Duscur!”

Anna leans over the side of the ship, her magenta hair fluttering in the wind, waving a white handkerchief. She yells something back to the Merchant, but she can’t hear it over the din. But she stands there, waving, until the ship sails farther out of the port and out to the vast sea beyond.  
  
The Merchant’s arm drops to her side with a sigh, and she pushes her wind-mussed white hair out of her dark face. Off they went, onwards to Duscur… Anna and her little party would make it there in about a week and a half. If she wanted to hurry up and get there in a timely manner across the land, she’d better get going by the end of the week.

Miklan wasn’t coming, despite what the Merchant had told Anna. The two of them had stayed up into the wee hours discussing his fate the night before, if the dark bags under her eyes were any evidence, and he declared he was going to head further south, down towards Galatea territory. The Merchant can’t bring herself to admit that she wasn’t entirely pleased with this idea, but what could she do? She had given the boy his freedom. His life was his own now. It was up to him to make the most of it.

When the Merchant finally wanders back to the Merchant’s Guild, Miklan has already vacated their shared room. All his belongings, once haphazardly spread across his bed, have long disappeared, and the Merchant can’t help but feel the room’s… emptiness. She had been traveling with him for almost three months, and to suddenly have him be gone was… odd, to say the least.

It’s a lot quieter at the Guild, now that the new year’s over. There was a massive party two days ago, one she went to for only a few minutes; of course, Miklan indulged a bit too much in all the freely flowing beer, and laid in bed for an hour or two releasing whatever odd thought entered his brain before falling asleep. And the Merchant had to admit… deep down, it was nice to be able to care for someone. Even if it was for such a short time.

“You think they miss me at that house?” Miklan had grumbled into his pillow.  
  
“I’m sure,” The Merchant had replied, but that answer had not satisfied him. He groaned and rolled about for a while, cursing his younger brother many times over, and the Merchant simply did her best to make sure he didn’t roll clear off his bed.

“They’re too busy kissing Sylvain’s little ass! That little traitor. I was--”  
  
“Supposed to own the house, yes.”

A sniff. “Bet only Ethel misses me. Ethel was good. I liked her.”

“She seemed very kind.”

“She was my nursemaid ‘til Ma spat Sylvain out. Then she had to pay attention to him. But she always-- s-she always snuck a piece of candy under my teacup. Even though that could have gotten her fired. Even though I'm a worthless Crestless good for nothing...”

Miklan went silent after that, silently sniffing into his pillow. The Merchant wasn’t sure if he had wanted the comforting, so she had left him be. Eventually, he’d fallen asleep, but now, she wishes she had reassured him a little more before he left.

She sighs and brings herself back to the current moment. No use mulling over it now. She had to focus back on herself now, and what she was going to do from here.

The grumbling in the Merchant’s stomach reminds her that she had failed to eat breakfast this morning. Going downstairs and getting some lunch, and then napping for a bit sounded like a good idea… The Merchant pulls her overcoat off, lays it on her bed, and undoes her hair, heading back down the stairs.

She’s surprised when she sees Miklan down in the lobby, passing his key to the counter girl. “Oh, Miklan,” She greets, coming down the rest of the stairs. “I thought you’d already be gone.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” The redhead mumbles, hefting his pack more onto his back. He looks quite hungover from the night before, his voice gravelly and rough. “I had to go shop for supplies. Then I realized I forgot to give back the key…”  
  
“Ah,” The Merchant replies, already feeling that wall going back up between them. “Well… I’ll be here for a few more days. I’m heading to Duscur after.”

“I was there for that conversation.” Miklan curtly replies, pulling his loose hair back into a ponytail. “Hope you get your riches.”

The Merchant can’t help but feel a little sad. She thought they had made such good progress during the New Year, but… she supposes she shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. She had been his jailer for almost three months; of course he felt no familiarity with her. “Thanks. Be safe on the road, okay?”  
  
Miklan grunts, turns away from her, and is out the door, where his horse is waiting. The Merchant follows him to the door, and watches him mount Tobias. He spurs the brown pony, and he’s off like a shot towards the city gates, and he doesn’t look back. Not once.

So… that’s that. Miklan was gone now. And she had a life to get on with. She was guardless now, but she supposed she would just have to make due. Perhaps she could take on a young Duscur boy, or… maybe she should give up on the idea of having a guard if everybody was going to lob servants at her.

Either way. She still had a few days left here in the city. People were beginning to pack up and leave, but those leaving still needed supplies. And she would be the one to supply those to them.

The Merchant turns, and tries to take her mind off of Miklan. He would be alright. 

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1170 _ _  
_ _ Great Tree Moon, Day 4 _

_ Tailtean Plains _

Miklan sighs and dumps his bloodied clothes into the creekside, remembering that yes, he needed a few shreds of yucca root to get the soap going. He peels a few chips off of the dried root the Merchant had given him with his hunting knife, and once the water starts to foam, he swirls the blood and dirt out of his clothes. A rabbit roasts on his nearby fire, Tobias is tied to a little shrubby bush so he can rest, and he feels that he’s doing pretty alright.

Well, he knew he would. He’d survived just fine without the Merchant while he was heading back to Gautier Manor. And Galatea wasn’t all too far from Fhirdiad, only a week’s journey. As much as he didn’t like the idea of going right back into servitude, if he was with a noble house, he could at least start gathering funds to go his own way.

Once he feels the clothes are sufficiently washed, he pulls the black, fur lined robe from the water and lays it out on the dry grass. He should have done this earlier, when the sun wasn’t starting to set, but he wouldn’t get the opportunity otherwise. Besides, he at least had a few changes of clothes to go through now instead of just the one; he could live without those pants and that robe for a while.

Miklan sighs and settles against the shrubby bushes, absently chewing on one of the now well cooked rabbit haunches. Some salt would make this better, but he was so tired he couldn’t really be bothered to dig it out from under all his stuff. But he would in the morning-- if he wanted to make the meat last until he got to Galatea, then he’d have to salt it really well. He barely had the time to hunt, not to mention it was hard to when everything could see you coming from a mile away...

It was late, and Miklan really needed some shut-eye soon. He wouldn’t sleep too long, just a few hours, and then he’d get going again. Being out in the open like this was… exposing, and he didn’t like it. He’d just have to put up with it until he got out of the Plains.

Miklan throws the bones as far away as he can to avoid scavengers wandering to his camp, and then wraps the rest of the rabbit up in his game bag. He shoves the bag into the bush, and then settles down into his furs to work on carving the blade of his hunting knife. He didn’t have much else to in his downtime, after all; might as well busy his hands.

He avoids adding overly flowery details, things that would get blood and viscera easily trapped in them. Miklan focuses on straight lines, carefully chiseling out surface carvings and smoothing them out as he goes. The work is tedious, but it eases his mind. He can just focus on the carvings and not on anything else cluttering up his brain.

Miklan’s eyelids grow heavy. Maybe it’d be best if he just slept for now. He tucks the knife and his tools under his blankets, and settles further down into the pile of furs. With a yawn, he tucks his head into his blanket and watches his fire burn down into charcoal.

Maybe it would be nice to start learning a trade when he got to Galatea. Maybe...

:-:

The cold sting of a knife against his throat is what wakes Miklan up.  
  
“Alright, boy, git up nice and slow. Don’t even think ‘bout grabbing that pretty knife of yours. Just git up good and slow and you might git outta here in one piece.”

A voice-- Miklan’s blood turns to ice, as cold as the sting on his neck. Thieves! They must have snuck up on him while he slept like a damn fool. He can’t retaliate now, not while this knife’s at his neck, so for now, Miklan slowly pushes himself up on his elbows, and slowly onto his knees.  
  
The thief holding the knife is big; a good bit bigger than him, and _ gods _ he smells awful. He has this awful toothy grin and shaggy black hair pulled back into a greasy bun, and out of the corner of his eye, Miklan can see two other thieves rifling through his bags. His purse wasn’t in there, thank the Goddess, but he’s willing to bet that they’re going to slit his throat to get to it. 

Miklan finishes pulling himself to his feet, hands up and eyes locked on the man in front of him. The knife is finally pulled from his throat, only to be jabbed in the side with the sharp point. He hisses, feeling warm blood seep into his tunic. “Walk, boy. Other side o’ the fire. Me and you are gonna sit and wait while we see what goods y’have.”

The thief manhandles him to the other side of the now tempered fire, barking orders out to his friends in another language. Were they from Sreng?? Could be, they have the look of the Srengese people, notorious for their thieving ways… no wonder they were out here robbing folk on the Plains. They could sneak up on an entire group and rob them before they could even blink.

His saddlebags and backpack are emptied, the two thieves thumbing through the clothes and blankets. “Got this armor,” One speaks up, pointing to the armor the Merchant had purchased for him in Lund. “That’ll be a pretty penny.”

“Yeah, yeah, just wrap it up, you moron,” The black haired thief spits out, knife still dangerously close to Miklan’s side. He’s not talking, as much as he wants to-- he had to think of how to retaliate and get out of here, and quickly. “Them clothes too, they look warm. Anything else in there?”  
  
“Naw, Jinhai, this looks ‘bout it. Mebbe he’s got his purse on ‘em?” 

Jinhai. So that’s his name. Jinhai slices into Miklan’s tunic with the tip of his curved blade, pulling the linen belt wrapped around his waist off and yanking his purse off with it. He tosses it to one of the thieves, cackling. “There it is! Pretty heavy too. Good catch, boys! We’ll be--”  
  
Jinhai chokes on the words, Miklan finally having enough of standing still and driving his elbow as hard as he can into his gut. The knife loostens in the thief’s grip, and Miklan’s quick to wrench it out of his hands before he can drive it into his side. That-- that was shockingly easy, Miklan thinks. 

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” Miklan spits, hand clenched firmly around the bone handle. “You’re gonna drop my shit and you’re get the fuck out of here. Take another step and I’ll kill you!”

The words are said with such confidence, they almost betray the small core of quivering fear that’s making Miklan’s heart go a million miles a minute. And of course, they don’t just drop his stuff and leave-- no, Jinhai pulls another knife from his belt, and so do his friends, all three of them moving to dogpile him at once.

Miklan sidesteps one of the other thieves, locking blades with Jinhai. He kicks at his knee, hoping to knock it out from under him, but the man expertly jumps back and avoids it. Miklan swipes the blade at the third thief that comes at him, the knife whistling through the quiet air, an arc of blood gushing from the thief’s arm. He staggers back, howling, and Miklan snarls. That’s one. He could take--

Jinhai’s foot comes from nowhere, sweeping his right ankle out from under him. Miklan stumbles into the dusty ground, and the thief swings his knife, Miklan pulling his face back to avoid being stabbed--

But not enough. A white hot flash of pain brands his face, a scream wrenching from his throat. Turning the knife in his hand, Miklan stabs it out as hard as he can as Jinhair grabs his head, feeling the blade come into contact with-- with something. He’s not sure what, for a moment, because everything’s spinning, but then he hears an odd gurgle, Jinhai’s body shuddering around the knife.

Oh. It-- it’s in his chest. The black haired thief’s chest makes a terrible gurgling noise, and he pulls himself off of Miklan’s knife, grabbing at the wound. The other two thieves, stricken by Miklan’s snarling face and Jinhai’s surely fatal wound, turn on their heels and run off with their plundered goods, leaving their leader behind. Miklan staggers backwards and falls onto his rear, right as Jinhai coughs up a mouthful of bloody foam, sinking to the shrubby ground.

He killed him. He wasn’t dead yet, but he was going to be dead in a few moments. Miklan’s face _ burns _, he can barely see-- and when his hand reaches up to touch the wound, he makes a small sob at the new flash of pain that lances across his face. His right eye’s choked with blood that’s pouring from his forehead, he can taste it in his mouth--

Jinhai’s chest rattles, and he suddenly stops making noise. Dead. The air goes eerily still, and it shakes Miklan to the core. He’d only been gone two days, and he had been robbed blind and almost killed. Two days. That’s all he was able to go before something bad happened.

His chest burns. Miklan manages to pull himself up, throwing Jinhai’s blade into the inky darkness around him, not wanting to look at it any longer. He leaves the body in question alone as he stumbles back to his spooked horse, trying to pull himself into the saddle. His knees are knocking so terribly and his face hurts _ so much _ that it takes him three tries to get into the saddle, quickly spurring Tobias and taking off towards--

Somewhere. Anywhere. Miklan lays his head against Tobias’ neck and shudders deeply, feeling the blood dripping out from his slashed nose and forehead. He can’t move his mouth without feeling the flesh there tearing, tears pricking his eyes from the searing, ripping pain. Two days. He’d just gotten lucky in Gautier Territory. He knew those mountains, he knew where to hide-- but outside of his little bubble, he’d been proven inept.

Everything hurts. He can barely see the blazing stars overhead. Tobias continues to run through the night, and he wishes that he weren't so pathetic.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1170 _ _  
_ _ Great Tree Moon, Day 6 _

_ Fhirdiad _

The Merchant finishes counting out her coin, tucking it into her pouch. “Thanks for your business. Here’s your choker.”  
  
“Thank you, Lady Witch!” The man she’s selling to gushes, taking the delicately wrapped box gratefully from her. “Thank you a thousand times; My fiancee will love it! It’ll make her whole year, thanks to you!”  
  
The man trots off with his new purchase in tow, and the Merchant smiles. What a nice young man… he’d been so eager to buy his sweetheart a gift for her birthday and been _ more _ than willing to give her extra coin for gift wrapping. That was a good way to wrap up her last day here in Fhirdiad.  
  
If she didn’t leave by tomorrow, she wouldn’t make it to Duscur in time for the tribal conference. Anna and her little motley crew had a week of travel left, but she couldn’t fall behind. But these past few days had netted her a decent amount of coin, that choker especially. That’ll be enough to get her to Duscur. 

The Merchant closes up shop from there, packing up her jewels and goods and toting them back to the Merchant’s Guild. She starts to pack right away, packing her lockbox into the bottom of her saddlebags and layering her clothes on top. The number of merchants had dwindled considerably in the past four days, although those few who remained saw a nice lining of their pockets. Her included…

But she couldn’t dawdle anymore! She’d leave this very evening, and if she rode hard, she’d make it a decent way into the Tailtean Plains. Gathering her blankets and furs, the Merchant carefully folds them up and lays them on the bed, hanging her pot and kettle off of their hook on her saddlebags. Now, she had to pack her clothes, then weapons…

She’s so absorbed in packing her clothes, that when her door creaks open, it nearly gives the Merchant a heart attack. She turns around, hand pressed to the handle of her dagger, ready to yell at whoever mistakenly wandered into her room--

But the breath is knocked right out of her. It’s not a stranger. It’s Miklan standing before her, his hair haphazardly torn from its ponytail, his face and clothes streaked with blood. The Merchant gasps when she fully takes his very bloody face in-- there’s a hideous gash running diagonally across his forehead and nose, the flesh darkened with dried blood and infection.  
  
“O-Oh, shit,” He stutters, his shoulders quivering. “I didn’t think you were still here.”

“I--” The Merchant shakes her head, approaching him quickly and grabbing his shoulders. He flinches hard, but doesn’t pull away. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her handkerchief, spitting into it and quickly mopping the dried blood from his face, trying to see how bad the gash is. “Nevermind me! What on earth are you doing here, I thought you were going to Galatea-- great _ Goddess, _Miklan, is all this blood from you? Did you walk through town looking like this?!”

Miklan hisses when the handkerchief brushes over the wound, the Merchant leaning in to sniff it. It smells _ sour _ ; yes, that’s definitely infected. She had a poultice for that at least, quickly turning back to her bags to grab it. She unscrews it, taking a glob and spreading it into the gaping gash, Miklan howling at the sting.

“I--” He hisses as her fingers work the herbal paste in, shuddering deeply. “I-It’s not that bad, I just-- I-I had a run in with some petty thieves. That’s all.”

“Goddess, Miklan,” The Merchant replies, red eyes wide. “And they did this to you?”

He turns his face away from her now, her fingers smearing the poultice across his cheek. He doesn’t answer, but the Merchant knows humiliation when she sees it; they probably robbed him blind and then gave him this awful weal. She wants to close it on her own, but with the infection, she’s likely to trap the diseased flesh in with the clean flesh, and that would just bore an even deeper hole into his face.

“Two days,” Miklan croaks, his shoulders stuttering with a breath. “Two days before I was robbed and maimed like some worthless invalid. F-Fucking pathetic, isn’t it? I apparently can’t do anything on my own...”

The Merchant doesn’t answer right away, her red eyes suddenly unreadable. Her fingers simply work more of the solution into the wound, which she then dresses with two squares of gauze. She screws the lid shut and throws it back into her bags, which she then pulls off of her bed.  
  
“Are you wounded otherwise?” She asks. He vaguely motions to his side, where a bloodstain is, but she can see that the wound’s already closed over there, so she pays it no mind. 

“Did they take everything from you? Your money and armor?” Another quiet nod.

The Merchant shoves the bags into his hands, and turns to grab the rest of her things. “Come on then. We’re going to Duscur together. We have a lot of work to do.”

“W--” Miklan drops the bags she thrust at him, the room spinning around him as she prepares the rest of her things. “I-I just rode two days back to Faerghus w-with a hole in my face and you’re just--”  
  
“Quiet,” The Merchant suddenly snarls, shocking him into silence. “You feel like an invalid? Like you’re worthless? We’re fixing that. Did you at least kill the bastard that gave you that cut?”  
  
Miklan’s so taken aback by the sudden change of her normally complacent attitude that he just nods dumbly for a moment. The Merchant nods back at him, shrugging her backpack on. “Good. There’s hope for you yet then. That scar on your face is going to be a reminder-- a reminder of what happens when you feel like you’re _ weak. _”

The room spins even more. Miklan’s heart thrums in his chest, a familiar, slow burning anger rising up. “You-- H-How dare you! I nearly got killed and _ this _is how you respond?!”

“Because you haven’t shown me how strong you can be and clearly me babying you has not helped you any!” The Merchant replies with a fiery voice, grabbing the last of her supplies. “Instead of righteous anger that you were victimized, you pity yourself and call yourself worthless, and it does you such a disservice it’s honestly disgusting! So this is what’s going to happen! You will be fully compensated as a guard and knight by me, and you will _ prove _ your mettle to me. You want to show people you aren’t worthless? Then stop your self-pitying ‘poor me’ act and prove it!”

The challenge in her voice both astounds and pisses Miklan off beyond words. He hadn’t exactly been hoping for pity and a pat on the head, but this sudden _ exasperation _ coming from her, of all people, sets his blood on fire. How dare she imply that, after he'd nearly been gutted like a fish--! “You--you _ witch _ ! I-I’ll show you! I’m not-- I’m not--!”  
  
“Good, _ that’s _ the attitude I want!” The Merchant suddenly grabs him by the wrist, dragging him from the room with her things in tow. Her stride’s much faster, her red eyes alight, as if she were motivated by some plan beyond that he couldn’t make sense of. “As soon as your face heals, I’m beating you into shape and you’ll never have time to pity yourself again! I’ll make you the greatest knight anybody’s ever known!” 

The Merchant knows she likely is being too hard on Miklan, especially after such an experience. But being hard on him and challenging him is the only way she’ll ever knock him out of that self-pitying attitude that drug him down. With an attitude like that, it’s a wonder he wasn’t killed, a wonder she hadn’t died trying to drag him up-- consolation and comfort didn’t do a thing for him except keep him floating for a few weeks. Only action would make a true change and help him realize his truest potential.

Miklan’s face stings. The Merchant’s grip on his wrist is tight. And yet, now, instead of moving sluggishly as he had this morning when he stumbled back to Faerghus, he matches her stride, finally yanking his wrist out of her hand. He truly had nowhere else to go; he had no armor, no weapons, no money, nothing. All he had left was the Merchant.

All he could do now was trust this woman, as much as he dislikes her. It’s that, or die out there in the wild. And if-- if anybody truly could help him become more than he was, it would be her.

The Merchant pushes the door to the Guild wide open, the afternoon light almost blinding him. “Come then,” The Merchant calls. “Off to Duscur!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it might seem abrupt that the Merchant's suddenly so rough with him, but when you consider how stubborn Miklan is and how deep his self-loathing runs due to the lack of a crest, comfort and pity doesn't help him at all, and she now knows this. getting him riled up and eager to prove himself is how she's gotta approach things from now on, since her hands off approach of trying to relate doesn't help. 
> 
> a smidge of that anger might come from her being afraid at how close he came to dying. just a smidge.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didnt mean for a month to lapse between updates! I moved, my parish kicked into high gear for Advent, and Ive been desperately trying to ger ready for Kumoricon. So sorry to make you wait!
> 
> Thanks to Spedira as always. 
> 
> Come find me at Kumoricon! I’ll be Flayn on Saturday!

_ And in the spring I shed my skin, and it blows away with the changing wind. The waters turn from blue to red, as towards the sky, I offer it… _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1171 _

_ Garland Moon, Day 15 _

_ The coastal village of Colopio, Duscur _

“On your mark.”

Miklan pulls in a slow, deep breath, pulling his bandage wrapped fists back into a readied position. The dark skinned, white haired youth before him does the same, piercing blue eyes steadily meeting his brown own. Hawks cry overhead, taking off towards the distant sound of the ocean’s crashing waves, and everything is still. The youth, despite his young age, had bested Miklan in battle many times over; but not today, not if he could help it.

The Merchant lowers her hand in signal. “Begin!” 

Miklan charges forward, howling to the wind, while the youth takes a steadying position. He lifts his arms and easily blocks Miklan’s fist, sweeping at his legs with a foot and almost toppling the redhead over. Miklan growls and hooks the youth’s shoulder, breaking past his guard, and the two of them topple to the dusty ground, locked together in a grapple.

Dedue’s strong for his age, Miklan has to admit. He has no idea what the people of Duscur fed their kids to make them so tall and so strong, but this almost ten year old was almost as tall as he was, strong as he was, and has beaten him in almost every fight they’d had. They grapple and scramble against the dirt, the Merchant’s red gaze watching them carefully, and Miklan just--  _ cannot  _ get Dedue to submit. 

He tries all manner of maneuvers, all manner of grapples and even punches Dedue as hard as he can in the gut. The youth flinches, but doesn’t yield. Miklan howls again and struggles against the youth’s weight, slapping his hand across his dark cheek.   
  
“Just,” Miklan grinds out, pushing against Dedue’s immovable face. “Let me win for once, dammit--!”

“What would the point be in that?” Dedue replies smoothly with a toothy grin, grabbing Miklan’s arm and pinning it behind his back. “It’s more rewarding if you truly work for it.”

Miklan scowls, and right as he gets ready to really start struggling, a temple bell begins to ring, echoing across the little village. Dedue composes himself and wedges himself off of Miklan, despite the older boy getting in one last sneaky punch. Dedue offers Miklan a hand to get up, but Miklan grumbles, ignoring the hand, pushing himself up and spitting a mouthful of dirt out. The Merchant walks over, offering him a towel to wash his face off with, and the three of them slowly make their way down the cliffsides and down to the warmly lit village below. 

“You almost had him,” The Merchant offers. “Almost.”  
  
“Shut up,” Miklan hmphs, wiping his face and arms off. “I’ll get ‘em next week for sure.”  
  
The coastal village of Colopio had been their home for the past year. The Merchant had made it just in time for the tribal meet, and as promised, Anna came through with her honeyed tongue. She and Miklan had been sent here to represent the Merchant’s Guild, and they had been graciously housed by the blacksmithing Molinaro family. In exchange for room and board, the Merchant sold their tools to other merchants and helped watch the younger children, while Miklan worked the horses and the fields.

While the Merchant blended in perfectly, Miklan stood out like a sore thumb in Duscur. Many of the people here had dark skin and white hair, like the Merchant, with the occasional brunette and blonde scattered about, but with his white skin and red hair, he’d been the source of much wonder for the young Molinaro children. They pulled and fussed and teased him for the better part of a month before he became a common sight in Colopio. But even then, kids and adults alike gawked at him.

But the warmth of the people of Duscur had been… odd, at first. Unnerving, even, with how they welcomed he and the Merchant with open arms once they arrived in Colopio. The matriarch of the Molinaros, Estel, had been so excited to host foreigners from the Holy Kingdom-- after all, nobody had really ever come this far to the rural villages. 

Raising a hand to his eyes, Miklan can see other people leaving their plows in their terraced fields, picking their way down the rolling hills to come down to Colopio. That temple bell meant it was time for evening prayer, and then after that, dinner-- although he and the Merchant were likely going to skip prayer in favor of getting back home and getting dinner started. Their services and all their foreign gods made Miklan’s head hurt.

The smell of the burning forge drifts towards their little group, and Dedue takes a left towards the temple while Miklan and the Merchant go right, towards the Molinaro home. From this far away, they can see Dario, Dedue’s father, banking the coals and wiping the sweat from his wrinkled brow. The little children, Adiel, Neema, Terran and Rosea play at his feet, wrestling and tussling and squealing with laughter. Dario looks half relieved when the Merchant comes onto the stoop, pulling his apron off and placing it on the nearby bench.

“Welcome back, you two,” Dario greets, warmly kissing the Merchant on the brow in greeting. He turns to Miklan and kisses his cheek, Miklan groaning and wiping his face off after. “How did training go?”  
  
“Another sound victory for Dedue.” The Merchant replies. Terran and Rosea are already crawling up Miklan’s legs, the man trying to shake them off. “He’s already at the temple for prayer. Is Lilen inside?”  
  
“Getting started, yes, same with Josei.” Dario confirms, wiping his face and arms off with a nearby rag. “Estel should be in there too. And _you--_” Dario pulls Terran off of Miklan’s leg at that, grabbing Adiel by the back of his shirt as well. “You two are coming with me. Girls, you go inside and help your mama.”

Adiel groans and puts his head into his father’s side, while Terran scurries up his back and clings to his neck. Adjusting the two of them as if they were no heavier than a sack of potatoes, Dario sets off towards the temple while the Merchant gathers up Neema and Rosea. “Come on, girls, we have a lot of bread to make tonight!” 

“But Miss Merchaaant,” Rosea complains. “I’m tired of making bread! I wanna cook on the parilla!”

“You are way too young to be anywhere near the parilla,” The Merchant firmly says, carrying the two girls inside. “Maybe next year.”

Miklan follows her in, only nodding to Estel, large and dark haired, managing loaves of bread by the burning oven, stoked by the oldest girl, Lilen. The parilla looms nearby, smoking with roast lamb, chicken, and various sausages, expertly managed by the old, white haired, stooped form of Josei, Estel’s mother. The Merchant dumps the two young girls by the counter with material for empanadas, then comes to join Estel.

“Come, Miklan, help us make bread.” The Merchant motions, tying her long white hair up in a woven ribbon.

Miklan groans and washes the dust from his hands from the waterpot, rolling his sleeves back and tying up his long, shaggy hair. “We’ve been living here a year and I’m still doing the womanly work. When can  _ I  _ help with the parilla instead of gossiping with you?”   
  
Estel giggles, slapping a loaf down onto the floured countertop. “Now, now,  dear,” She playfully chides, her accent thick around the Fodlan tongue. “Feeding the family is not ‘women’s work’, it is just  _ work _ . Come now, I have  marraqueta here for you to knead. Miss Merchant, watch the girls, can you?”   
  
The Merchant turns just in time to see Neema throw a wad of dough at Rosea, quickly swooping in to prevent a meltdown. Miklan sighs and sinks his hands into the smooth bread dough, working it in the way that Estel had taught him, feeling his arms start to burn within a few minutes. 

“Y’know, it’s _real odd _you’d rather be called a merchant than by your real name.” He throws out out to the Merchant, wrinkling his nose as flour goes up it. “You can’t just call yourself ‘Merchant’’ all the time, it’s annoying. You haven’t even told _me _your name either!”  
  
“It’s easier for me like this,” The Merchant calls back, stuffing an empanada and tossing it to Lilen, who slaps it into the clay oven. “I made some people in high places angry when I was starting out with my job. I’d rather lay low for the next couple of years, especially with the unrest in the Adrestian Empire.” 

“Who’d you piss off that bad?”   
  
“None of your business.”   


Miklan huffs and slaps the dough onto the counter, tearing a few pieces off to make individual loaves. “Course it’s none of my business. My whole life’s your business but nope, I can’t ask a question without getting sassed.”

The Merchant huffs herself, throwing another empanada over. “It’s for your own safety, and for the safety of those around me. Not everything is me wanting to lord over you.” 

Safety. The word makes the scar across Miklan’s nose and forehead tingle, and he wrinkles his nose again. Estel, sensing the danger, quickly leans over and pulls a small sausage off the parilla, stuffing it into Miklan’s mouth. “Training must have been hard today. Have a treat, dear, I just stuffed these this morning.”  
  
Miklan yelps past the sausage, the hot grease burning his tongue, pulling it out of his mouth. His whole mouth hurts, and the little ones are laughing at him now. He scowls, but upon taking a bite of the sausage, it’s not so bad. The taste of the hot greasy meat is enough to make him forget about another failed training session, all the way up until the temple bells toil again. 

With seasoned grace, Estel, Lilen and Josei lay out colorfully woven blankets on the open aired back porch, setting up a low table and laying out pillows for lounging. Bowls of salads, fruits, sauces and fresh bread quickly circle the table, while the roast lambs, chickens, sausages and other meats take the center. Josei goes back to the parilla to fill a small iron pot with coals, setting it down by the table and putting a kettle of water on top to warm for tea.

Right as the last few things are making their way to the table, Dario arrives with Dedue, Terran and Adiel. “Look, boys, a feast has been made for us! Quick, Adiel, go get a towel so we can dust our feet off and not look like dirty hooligans. Quick, quick now!” Adiel hurries off to go get the towel, and once they’re no longer dusty from the road, Dario takes his place at the center of the table, everybody quick to take their places as well.

“Thank you, ladies and gentleman,” Dario addresses the group of ladies and Miklan. “For cooking such a lavish feast. You spoil us! Come, let us join hands and give thanks, and then we can enjoy this delicious food. We’d better do it fast or half the village will be here begging!”

And so, they all do so, Miklan quietly taking Lilen and Estel’s warm, floury hands into his own. The prayer Dario always said was spoken in that rolling, smooth language of the Duscur people, beseeching gods and heroes he knew nothing about to bless them and protect them. Quietly, Miklan reaches out to the Goddess and asks for Her to look after him in this odd country, as he had every day for the past year. He did not know these gods or their children; they would not offer him any safety. 

The prayer ends and the meal commences, the table lit up with discussion about crops, new tools needing to be made for the village over, Dario’s laughter booming across the porch. He takes out his pipe midway through the meal and the sharp, half-bitter half-sweet scent of herbs permeates the air. Miklan eats as fast as he can, seeing as how the other boys always seem ready to fight him to the death for the best scraps of sausage and meat, and when he’s done, he leans back against the porch wall and observes everybody.

The Merchant looks like part of the family. She sits quietly, almost looking nostalgic, as if she were waking from a long, pleasant dream. The thought churns his gut; the Merchant always seemed to blend in no matter where she went. Her personality could adapt to any situation, to any person. He couldn’t make heads or tails of where her false mask started, and where it ended.

It was just about pathetic. Miklan’s nose wrinkles, a small stab of pain fluttering across the ill-placed scar on his face. He truly was a stranger here in these lands, with his white skin and red hair, and here he was, toiling day after day, while his family lived in luxury at home in Faerghus. Sylvain had likely never picked up a plow in his life, and never would. Kid had to be eleven by now; what kinds of trouble was he stirring up back at Gautier? Probably still lifting the maids’ skirts…

There’s a shifting of the pillows besides him, and Miklan opens his eyes. Dario smiles warmly at him, the towering man settling in next to him and offering him his pipe. “You have a lot of bruises today,” Dario notes, not unkindly. “Have a few breaths of this. You’ll feel better.”   
  
Miklan stares at the pipe, then up at Dario before he cautiously takes the pipe. He’s smoked once or twice, but it wasn’t ever this herb stuff, it was always some kind of tobacco. He lifts the pipe to his lips and takes in a good, deep breath, and almost coughs at the odd, tingling wave that goes over him after. 

“W-what the fuck is this?” Miklan half hacks, wiping his lips on his sleeve.   
  
“Herbs of the blossoming Maiden’s Hand flowers.” Dario replies with a laugh. “It’s safe, I promise! Take another breath and we’ll call it quits there.”   
  
Miklan groans, but takes another puff of the herb. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Dario was right; whatever flower that was made his limbs feel all light, and he doesn’t feel any of the sore bruises anymore. Even his scar isn’t hurting…

Miklan passes the pipe back to Dario and leans back further into the porch wall, brown eyes watching the girls and the younger boys pass around the carved out gourd they serve tea in. Dario regards his family warmly, chewing on the mouthpiece of his pipe. “Look at that. The family’s warm and fed and happy. It’s all I could ask for in life.”   
  
A blue eye swivels down to look at Miklan, Dario emptying the ashes from the pipe. “Have you been well? I see you scowling more often than not these days.” 

Miklan hmphs. “That’s my normal face.”

“No no, you seem more… how do you say? Tense? Especially since you began training with Dedue.”   
  
“What can I say? The kid’s nine and he beats the shit out of me on a regular basis.” Miklan’s vision sways a little, and he squints to keep himself in order. “Sure, in Faerghus, we start training young— we learn how to wield knives before we learn how to read and write. But you guys are— are really strong. I was able to beat the shit out of my kid brother regularly, but Dedue just fucking folds me in half and that’s the end of it.” 

Dario hmms, looking back at his oldest boy, who’s now helping Estel pick up plates and bowls. “It isn’t something you should hold against yourself. We of Duscur are already hearty folk. Dedue has been laboring his whole life, as well. All of us have been. You were a nobleman, were you not?”   
  
“ _ Was _ ,” Miklan hisses, looking over at the Merchant. “Until she showed up.”

Dario goes quiet for a moment, thoughtfully chewing on the pipe’s mouthpiece. The iron pot warming the tea simmers nearby, and Dario regards the stack of sticks next to it, picking a thin one up and passing it to Miklan.

“Here,” Dario says. “Break this.”   
  
“What?” Miklan looks at the branch, easily snapping it in two by making a fist. He’s left with the two bits, unsure of what Dario was getting at. “Okay, what. What was the point of that.”

“Hold on,” Dario replies, taking the two sticks and sticking them into the hot coals warming the teapot. He picks up three more sticks, passing them back to the redhead. “Try again.”

Miklan scowls at the sticks, trying to snap them in one go. He manages to get one crushed, but the rest he has to break over his knee before they snap. Dario feeds those to the flames as well, and then offers him nine sticks. “Now this one.”   
  
“That’s impossible to do!” Miklan complains, taking the thick bundle in his hands. He tries to prove his point, and all the attempt does is hurt his knee. “They’re way too thick like this!”   
  
“Exactly.” Dario smiles, refilling his pipe from a leather pouch hanging from his belt. He smokes the herbs out by sticking the pipe’s bulb into the nearby coals, taking a deep puff. “That is our strength here in Duscur; our family and friends, our communities. Do you remember us raising our neighbor’s house just last month after it burned down?”   
  
He hurt for three weeks after, but Miklan sure does remember it. People from all across Colopio came to help, giving blankets and furniture and food. Dario looks back towards his family, the Merchant’s head now resting in Lilenl’s lap as the young woman puts little braids in her shock white hair, her red eyes closed in bliss. 

“You and the Merchant may not always get along,” Dario continues. “But when you eventually leave us, she will be all you have. Holding onto this anger against your past will simply make you even unhappier. Either you come to terms with your past, your family…”   
  
Dario adds two more sticks to the bundle of nine, forming a bunch of eleven; numbers that matched the people at the table. “Or you should move on. You should hold each other up. And while you are here… we will do the same for you.”

Miklan opens his mouth to retort, say something about how he didn’t get it, he didn’t  _ understand _ , but… Miklan watches Dario tuck the bundle back against the tea warmer, standing up to help Estel clear the table. Josei gathers the small children and herds them all inside to get them to bed, while Lilen shakes the Merchant out of her daze to tell her she should probably sleep as well. 

Miklan slowly pushes himself to his feet, the herbs still making everything all fuzzy. He wanders inside the house and climbs up the stairs to he and the Merchant’s room, throwing himself into bed without changing his clothes. He curls himself up under all the woven blankets and furs, Dario’s words swimming around in his head. 

Move on. How. How did he do that? He had every right to be angry. Angry at his parents, at Sylvain, at the Merchant, hell, at the whole world for treating him this way. For almost a year and a half now, he’d been toiling as hard as the servants in his parents’ household with almost none of the reward. Why should he be happy about that?   
  
...But it was nice to see the fields all plowed and laden with corn, Miklan muses to himself, tucking himself more into his blankets. It was fun to help Dario at the forge. Whenever he wasn’t working the fields with the boys, he would sit by the forge and carve patterns into knives, the handles of hammers, all kinds of things… 

And he supposed it was nice to know that a lot of people had been fed because of him. That he helped raise a poor man’s house. That…

The door quietly swings open, and Miklan pretends to be asleep. He can hear the Merchant quietly slip in, closing the door behind her, pausing a moment by his bed. His covers shift a little; she’s merely adjusted the folds by his head, making sure his shoulders were covered. He waits until she slips off her shoes and crawls into bed, and waits until her breathing settles before he opens his eyes again.

The Merchant’s sound asleep in her bed, the covers tucked up around her head. If Miklan squints in the dim lantern light, he swears he can see the faint glimmer of tears around her closed eyes, slipping down her cheeks.

“Father…” The Merchant murmurs in her sleep, shifting a little under her blankets. “Father…”   
  
Miklan remains quiet. He turns over, looking at the wall, and pretends that he didn’t see that. Maybe… maybe he’d ask later. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more transitional before we hit plot. There’s one, I promise...

_Between two lungs, it was released, the breath that carried me, the sigh that blew me forward…_

:-:

_Imperial Year 1171_   
_Blue Sea Moon, Day 3_

_Colopio, Duscur_

“Hey, uh,” Miklan’s voice wavers, trying to find the courage to come out. “What were your folks like?”  
  
The Merchant comes to a still, her red eyes still trained forward out the window, towards the sloping hills. “...Why do you ask?”  
  
“Uh,” Miklan clears his throat, his hands still kneading the lump of bread dough he’s been working on for the past few minutes. “Like I said a while back. My whole life is your business, and you know a lot about me. But I know nothing about you. That isn’t fair.”

“And like I said before,” The Merchant’s voice is even, neutral. “It’s better you don’t know. The less you know of me, the better.”

“Yeah, and I’m sick and tired of this game.” The dough slaps heavily onto the counter, enough to make the Merchant’s shoulder’s jump. “I’m tired of it. You said you wanted to be on even footing with me, right? Well, how the fuck can we do that if you won’t tell me anything, huh?”

The Merchant remains silent, her floured hands gripping the edge of the counter like a lifeline. She suddenly doesn’t look very well, sweat beading on her forehead. Miklan isn’t sure what to make of it; he just asked a question, why was she acting like some cornered wolf?  
  
“Alright,” She suddenly says, softly, her hands returning to her empanada dough. “I was raised by two fathers, commonplace in the country where I was born. They were both witches of unimaginable power, and I received that power as well. War ravaged our country, and my whole family perished. Thus, I have been sentenced to forever wander across time and space, looking for repentance for a lifetime of mistakes.”

Miklan blinks at her. Then, an angry scowl crosses his face, tearing his dough in two. “You made all of that up on the spot, you insufferable witch!” 

The Merchant looks over her shoulder with a rueful smile, her white hair stuck to her cheeks. “Did I though?”

“Of course you did! You, a real witch, some kind of god— That’s blasphemy, you know!” Miklan sticks a doughy finger accusingly at her. “The Goddess doesn’t take kindly to blasphemy!”

“She should have smote me long ago then.”

“Ergh!” Miklan turns back to his dough, angrily mashing the bits together. “Forget I asked then, if you’re just going to treat me like a moron! You— you stupid woman!” 

The Merchant quietly turns back to her work station, hands kneading out a new cut out of round doughy disks. For a few minutes, the only sound is the sound of dough angrily hitting the counter, and now filled meat pastries thumping into place in the burning oven.  
  
“...Most of that was true.” The Merchant’s voice is still quiet. 

“Piss off, you liar.”  
  
“No, really.” The Merchant stills, wiping the sweat from her forehead and looking back out the kitchen window. Outside, she can see Dedue working the crop fields with his oxen, Dario pounding at a new plow for the next door neighbor at his forge. “I am foreign born. I come from a place far, far away from here. There were more men than women in my country, so it was quite common for two to marry and make family units.”

Weird. Miklan’s heard of unions like that in Fodlan, but he’s never really seen that kind of thing in person. He almost wants to comment on it, but he has a good feeling the Merchant would either pop him or tell him to shut up. So he focuses on the next detail, slapping his bread dough into a beaten up pan and shoving it into the oven. “But oh, they were witches?”

“Mages,” The Merchant corrects. “One had mastered the dark arts, while one was a lord of light. I had two little sisters, and one little brother. And… we were very happy.”

The Merchant comes to a standstill, eyes focused towards the distant horizon. “And they all died.”

Miklan shifts, suddenly quite uncomfortable. “War?”  
  
“As I said. My parents were conscripted by the queen to go out to the front lines. They perished. I was out of town when the war reached my city, where my siblings were— I wasn’t…”  
  
The Merchant goes quiet again. She takes a moment to compose herself, and then resumes stuffing pastries. “...It makes little difference now. It was so long ago.”

“You’re not much older than me,” Miklan points out. “And I haven’t— we would have heard of such a war, even in Fodlan!”  
  
“Not if we were far enough away. And trust me, this place is unreachable by normal means.” 

Miklan furrows his brow, sweat dripping down from his temple. “What’s its name?”  
  
“You’ve reached your allotted questions for the next few days. I’ve told you enough; now don’t make me recall anymore.”

“But—” Miklan wants to protest, he really does, but the look in the Merchant’s eyes makes his skin crawl. She looks— old. So old and so sad. “...Fine,” He concedes, washing his dirty hands and face off in the nearby water pot. “But you better tell me more later!”  
  
“Perhaps.” The Merchant replies, leaning on the counter and still gazing out into forever. “Perhaps when I feel ready enough.”

:-:

_Imperial Year 1171_   
_Blue Sea Moon, Day 7_

“Miss Merchant! Miss Meeerchant!”  
  
The Merchant is shaken awake from her nap by someone calling her name, sitting up from her supine position on the back porch’s cushions. Miklan still naps nearby, the Molinaros’ white cat tucked in the little space between his arm and side. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, the Merchant spots the person calling her; Estel, coming up the worn dirt roads, waving a bright blue envelope in her hand.

“You have a letter!” Estel announces as soon as she hits the stoop. Miklan finally startles awake, startling the cat too, the cat darting behind the nearby woodpile. 

“A letter?” The Merchant mumbles, pulling herself to her feet and taking the envelope. There’s her name, no doubt about it, and Miklan’s too. “I wasn’t expecting any letters…” 

The only people who sent her letters were Rodrigue and Anna. This envelope wasn’t styled like them at all, and the wax seal on the back gives her the shivers. It’s from the Royal House of Blaiddyd— not somebody she expected to hear from any time soon.

“Ah, this came with it,” Estel says, pulling a rumpled envelope from her apron. “The messenger said to open this one first.”  
  
The Merchant’s brows furrow, taking the rumpled envelope and returning to her cushions, tearing into the paper as Estel disappears inside. Miklan’s a little curious now, too, but he makes no sign of it, instead turning and attempting to coax the cat out from behind the woodpile. The Merchant pulls out the letter inside, scanning the first few lines over.

“It’s from Rodrigue,” She voices softly, the wrinkles in her brow deepening. “What is he going on about…? His guests to what…?”  
  
The Merchant drops the letter next to her, and tears open the blue envelope from Blaiddyd House. Miklan reaches over and snatches the other letter up, scanning it over. 

_‘Garland Moon, Day 20_

_My Dearest Lady (and Miklan too),_

_I’ll make this short, since my messenger’s waiting for this letter outside. You are quite the storyteller, my Lady. You promised you’d be back in a year’s time and I hear you’ve gone and hidden yourself away in Duscur to find riches! While I do hope you’ve found them, you made a promise that you need to keep._

_Luckily for both of us, there’s an event coming in two months where we’ll both be able to see each other again. Forgive me for already penning you down as my guests, but view this as a business opportunity. Every noble across Fodlan’s reach will be there. Use the connections wisely!_

_See you two in Fhirdiad._   
  
_Warmest regards, _   
_Duke Rodrigue (and Felix)’_

“What the hell is he rattling on about?” Miklan wonders out loud, turning back to the Merchant. She’s gone very still, the blue envelope trembling in her hands. “Uh— hey? What is it?”  
  
“It’s—” The word stutters out of her mouth, as if she cannot believe them. “I-It’s a wedding invitation. For King Lambert and his new wife.”

“What?!” Miklan explodes, startling the cat he’s been trying to coax out back to the woodpile. “A wedding? That’s what he’s all gungho about?! With the way he was carrying on I was expecting a funeral!” A wedding, Miklan sourly thinks on. Long, boring, stuffy, and did he mention boring. Why was everybody all up in arms about it?

“Everybody will be there,” The Merchant repeats, lost in her own head. She seems to be contemplating all the people she’ll be seeing, every merchant and noble and person alike… “All across from Fodlan, and the surrounding countries too…!”

“A room full of snooty nobles is what that’ll be,” Miklan grumps, leaning against the porch wall. He takes Rodrigue’s letter and fans himself with it, wishing the heat of the month would just go away. “Sounds boring.” 

“We’ve been meaning to leave Duscur anyway.“ The white haired woman muses. “We’ve made our fortunes and then some. If we go from Fhirdiad, we can loop back down to the Adrestian Empire, then go to the Alliance, then to Garrag Mach. We can start circuiting Fodlan like that…”  
  
The Merchant’s already formulating all the logistics in her head, Miklan can just see it. He’s half tempted to say she can go on by herself, he’d much rather stay in Duscur, but he remembers that he’d be stuck making bread alone and watching all the kids. And stuck getting his ass kicked by Dedue for the next lifetime alone, stuck doing all sorts of hard work. Between that and sitting in a room of haughty nobles, he thinks he’d rather deal with the latter…

“The wedding’s in a month,” The Merchant informs him, despite him not asking. “If we pack up and leave in a week, we can take a boat out of the port and be there in a week. That’ll give us time to settle in at the Guild, time to talk to Anna, get ourselves ready—”

“You’re supposed to lick the boot, not take it down your throat.” Miklan replies with a hmph. “It’s real impressive how much you’ll suck up to the nobility." 

“And that boot is what got us here in the first place.” The Merchant retorts. She gets up, dusting herself off, and vanishes inside. “I’m going to talk to Estel. We’ll have a week to get our affairs in order, so don’t rush on my behalf, okay?”  
  
“Wasn’t planning to.” The redhead sighs, getting onto his feet and abandoning the task of trying to get the cat. “I’m going for a walk. Have fun being smothered by Estel.”  
  
Miklan leaves before he can process her response, if there was one. Instead, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and wanders up Colopio’s dusty roads, sidestepping playing children and a few stray sheep. It’s odd, he realizes, looking at the houses made of thick mud and stone, that this would be one of the last times he saw these buildings. 

They might come back, sure. But the Merchant was never one for staying in one place forever. They only stayed for the initial gold rush, and by now, things had calmed. The Merchant was happy with her gleaming coin, and now it was time to move on. It was very easy for her to uproot herself from one place to the next.

Miklan’s feet don’t stop moving, not until he’s made it up the same cliffside he and Dedue always spar at. He comes to a stop at the shrubby edge of the cliff, looking out over the roaring sea. Slowly, he sits down, his legs dangling off the cliffside, dangling over the empty abyss of air. 

Duscur was different. It would never stop feeling different, with their foreign gods and foreign languages. But at least here, with all the work he had to do, with all the things he had to deal with, he never once felt… like a burden. Odd, sure, but these strangers had welcomed him into their family like it was nothing, even with the way that he was. It would have been much easier to hate him. So much easier.

He had resented the work at first, sure. Not once had Miklan imagined he would be plowing fields, planting crops, helping in a woman’s kitchen or shoveling ox manure all day long. All those things he’d passed off as servant work, or woman work, he had come to do. It may have taken him a while, but he had realized that he was just… tired. Tired of being angry all the time. 

Even now, it stewed and bubbled in some dark corner of his mind, ready to rear up and snap at whoever came close. It was always the Merchant who often got the brunt end of his pissed off tyrades, but he supposed she was an easy outlet. An easy excuse. She was his owner at one point, so it was just— easy to blame her for all of his woes.

Hating her was easier than getting inside of her head.

The Merchant was still an enigma, some sort of ageless witch who often made no sense. Miklan wasn’t sure where the mystery of her began, where it blended in with however many false identities she had, and where any of it ended. 

When you eventually leave us, she will be all you have. 

Miklan shudders, rubbing his arms, the salty sea breeze far warm on his skin. In a way, Dario had been right. The Merchant really was all he had. He never wanted to talk to his mother and father again, not after all that. He didn’t care about Sylvain either, not since the day he was born. If he went off on his own, he’d be just that; on his own.

He had no one; no one save the Merchant. Whatever her name truly was. 

Miklan scoots himself a little closer to the edge of the cliff, where the white and yellow Maiden’s Hands bloomed, swaying in the wind. Once upon a time, he wanted to disappear into the abyss. Be anywhere but here. But now, he wanted to persist. If it wasn’t for the Merchant, if it wasn’t for himself, then he wanted it to be out of spite. He could use that burning anger inside of him— he could use it to live as much as he could and show his parents he didn’t need them. Them or their cursed name.

Miklan Anschutz Gautier. He supposes just Miklan Anschutz would do.

Miklan stays there at the edge of the cliff for a long, long while. Long enough for the sun to start to set, long enough for the temple bells to toil, and long enough for the Merchant to notice his long absence. He hears her before he sees her, her footsteps padding up the dusty cliffside, and she comes to a stop a few feet behind him.

“Come on back,” The Merchant says quietly, an offer of peace between them. “Dinner is ready.” 

Miklan stares out to sea for a few moments more, and then, he pulls himself off of the edge of the abyss and gets to his feet. “Yeah, yeah,” He murmurs. “Did Estel make sausages again? Those are always really good...”

The Merchant smiles. “Of course she did.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kumoricon's in a week! Hopefully I can churn out one more chapter before then. If not, see you there! 
> 
> Thanks to Spedira.
> 
> OH ALSO, you can now find me on twitter @dedizenoflight! Hit me up please <3

_ You want a revelation, you want to get right, but it's a conversation I just can't have tonight, you want a revelation, some kind of resolution, you want a revelation... _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1171  
_ _ Verdant Rain Moon, Day 1 _

_ Cathedral of the Saints, Fhirdiad _

Miklan shifts uncomfortably. This heavily embroidered doublet he’s wearing is so sweaty.

“You look stupid.” Felix deadpans down the pew to him.

A vein throbs in Miklan’s forehead. Kid didn’t have room to talk, considering he was swimming in his hand-me-down light blue and silver waistcoat. “So do you, kid.”   
  
Glenn slings a lacy arm around Miklan’s shoulder, grinning and ruffling up Felix’s ponytail. The seven year old shrieks and swats at his older brother’s hand, pushing it away with a pout. “You wanna know who looks even more stupid than all of us? Dad.”

“I heard that.” Rodrigue dryly replies. His ringed fingers are busy tucking the laces of the Merchant’s bodice into her dress, hiding the obvious rip in the back panel with her fox fur capulet. “Cheer up, Lady Witch. The silk was weak, that’s all.”

“I’ve gained weight from being fed so much good food in Duscur is what it is,” The Merchant notes sourly. “I’ve gotten fat and lazy.” 

“Definitely.” Miklan confirms without glancing over once. He pushes Glenn’s arm off of his shoulder and leans back against the pew, wishing the thing were more comfortable. “How much longer do we have until this thing starts? I wanted to be gone an hour ago…”

“Give it another thirty minutes.” Glenn says, kicking his black trousered legs in anticipation. His glimmering blue eyes take in the stained glass windows set into the arched walls, a smile creased across his lips. “These things take time, and trust me, the royals like to take their time.” 

Miklan groans, and tries to distract himself by looking around the large cathedral for the umpteenth time. This cathedral was the oldest in the Holy Kingdom, and it showed it too, with its cold drafts and the occasional leak here or there. But all the art and the sheer beauty of the architecture made up for all those cold drafts, his eyes studying the stained glass window poised above the high altar. 

An image of the Goddess, forever immortalized in glass. She stands in a lush forest, hands outstretched and her eyes cast downward in a loving gaze. The Saint Seiros kneels beside her, her finger dipped into a stream, four small human children surrounding her. The Birth of the Saints; Miklan knew that passage by heart. 

He hadn’t been in this cathedral for a long, long time. Last time that he can really remember was Sylvain’s baptism. He vaguely remembers feeling itchy all over that day thanks to his woolen jacket, and Sylvain screamed throughout the whole ordeal. It was a relief to leave the church, even if his parents ignored him the whole way home. 

If he were to get married, it would have been in this church, too. Not that Miklan had ever really given any stock to marriage. Weddings were dull affairs, fraught with politics and underhanded business deals, and his own mother had taken great pleasure in informing him that all of his potential suitors had been pooled to Sylvain when he presented the Crest of Gautier.

Why did she tell him that? Out of some demented excitement? Malice? Besides, Miklan hadn’t taken any notice to whatever floozy or whatever noble girl had come to Gautier Manor. All it was was politics, and he’d have no part of it when he did live at home. 

Glenn looks over his shoulder and grimaces. “Don’t look,” He murmurs over to Miklan. “Your parents just showed up. They’re three pews back, right behind the Galateas.”

Glenn  _ says  _ don’t look, and like a fool, he does anyway. Just the smallest glance. Sure enough, Sylvain’s sliding into the last open space of that pew wearing an embroidered orange vest, his mother and father shuffling in behind him. Something twists his guts up, both hot and cold, and he makes himself look forward, back towards the high altar. He didn’t want to look at them, acknowledge them any more than he already had.   
  
“Think they’ll notice I’m here?” Miklan whispers over to Glenn.   


“Why do you care?” Glenn asks with a cocked eyebrow.

Despite his churning stomach, Miklan manages a grin and folds his arms behind his head. “Because I’m up here in the special guest pew while they’re stuck schmoozing with some no-name assholes.”

Glenn snarks, hiding the noise behind a gloved hand. Rodrigue shoots him a correcting look, sparing a glance over his shoulder as well. He shares a few quiet words with the Merchant, something about having spoken to them recently, and Miklan tunes it out. He doesn’t want to hear it.

From above them, a lone, quavering woman’s voice sings out. Like a wave, the congregation stands, a few stragglers quickly shoving their way into their pews. Felix, still too short to see, stands on the pew to look behind them as a long line of priests and nuns, forefronted by a woman holding a golden staff with the Crest of Serios on it. 

Surrounded by little boys swinging thuribles, Archbishop Rhea files in behind the procession, cloaked in incense smoke and holding the golden Holy Scriptures book above her head. Her train is carried by a man with green hair and a girl with mint hair, both dressed in blue and white. Miklan pays no mind to them, focusing only on the Archbishop and her proud face.   
  
He’d only heard of the Archbishop and read her addresses; never did he dream he would see her in person. She’s tall, regal, and somewhat intimidating if he’s being completely frank. She approaches the high altar, places the Scriptures on their stand, and bows deeply to the altar and its reliquaries, kissing the lace altar runner. She takes a thurible from one of her attendants and blesses the altar with incense before turning and… waiting. 

More voices join the haunting woman’s call. A round of trumpets echo across the cathedral. Miklan can see King Lambert come in through the cathedral doors, his face lit with radiant joy. Prince Dimitri’s behind him, holding up his father’s ermine trimmed cape. Again, a rippling wave, the congregation bows, Lambert stopping here and there to shake hands with a few well wishers. He’s laughing, he’s smiling, he seems— so happy. 

Miklan swears he’s about to choke on all this incense. A little bit of the incense smelled nice, but this much makes him feel like he’s going to puke. It’s stinging his eyes too, blinking a few times to try and get the fumes out of his face. How could those nuns and priests stand it, day in and day out? 

“Hey, isn’t that Miklan?”   
  
Miklan’s blood runs hot in his veins, the taste of myrrh coating his tongue.

“Hush, Sylvain— huh, I suppose it really is him, if that’s Lady Witch with him...”

“I thought you said he ran off.”

Ran off…?

Miklan looks a little over his shoulder. How did he hear all of that above the choir, above the thundering organ? But he sees it— Sylvain’s eyes trained on the back of his head, his mother pinching his shoulder. 

“He did. Ran off to go join Lady Witch on some wild adventure and shirked his responsibilities. Now hush--”

The voices of the choir have spun all together into some inhuman shriek. King Lambert shakes hands with Duke Rodrigue. Kisses his cheek. Proceeds to the altar and waits by Archbishop Rhea’s side while the cathedral doors crack open, a woman shrouded in layers of silk and lace and white quietly walking in, escorted by a red-coated man with long brown hair. Her brother, Volkard, the program says. Her bouquet spills with red flowers, a bloodstain on her white gown.

Miklan’s breathing picks up, heat flushing across his face. His brown eyes dart back towards the altar, towards what has to be King Lambert’s beaming face, but he can’t see it. Everything’s too bright. Everything’s too loud, the myrrh slithering down his throat. 

Ran off. Is that what they told Sylvain? They told him he ran away instead of telling him they sold him off? 

The howling voices stop, the ghostly bride arriving at the altar, her train still in the middle of the aisle. The organ silences. The people sit down, and Miklan makes himself sit too, even though his limbs feel stiffer than ice. Glenn’s shooting him an inquiring glance, and he ignores it. 

Shirked his responsibilities— how could they dare to say that? They  _ sold  _ him, was that what they told themselves he did, to help them sleep better at night? Sylvain mumbles more behind him, and it reawakens that boiling rage, that hideous voice that hisses that he needed to prove them wrong. Make them regret everything.

“Dearly beloved,” Archbishop Rhea’s voice is as clear and loud as a bell, ringing in his eardrums. “We are gathered here today…”

Her voice swirls, the words blurring into a long spiel about life and the earth and the blessing of the Goddess. Miklan can barely process any of it, bouncing his right knee and his fingers digging into his silk trousers. He can already see a few runs in the black silk. The Merchant’s gonna be pissed if she sees that. He doesn’t care.

It’s so hot. When did it get so goddamn hot? Miklan pulls at his ascot, trying to loosen it. The pin won’t come free, dammit— now the Merchant’s looking at him too, concern on her face. 

“Miklan,” She whispers, and it sounds like she’s screaming right in his ear. “You okay?”

“M’fine,  _ ma _ ,” Miklan strains out, annoyed sarcasm hinting in his words as his knee bounces even more. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

He can feel Sylvain’s eyes boring two hot little pinholes into the back of his head. Good, stare, he’s up here with the people the King gives a shit about, and he’s back there with the peons. Be jealous. Be angry that he found life outside of them, good-- 

Now his left leg’s bouncing too, Glenn subtly leaning into his thigh to try and silence the noise, stop the quivering of the ancient pew. He pushes him away with his leg, trying to keep his eyes focused ahead. Don’t look back at them. Don’t give them the satisfaction. 

His jaw hurts so much. Miklan realizes he’s been clenching his teeth and tries to stop, unhinging his frozen jaw. Archbishop Rhea’s turned back towards the altar, beseeching the Goddess to look down upon them. 

“Sothis!” Rhea cries out, her voice choked with emotion, eyes cast heavenwards towards the Holy Mother. The Sacred Name rings across Miklan’s entire being, vibrating him to the core. “Goddess of All, Most Holy Mother, hear our prayers!”

“Holy Mother, hear our prayers!” The congregation responds in kind, a steady drumbeat in the pulse of the liturgy. Miklan’s nails tear a hole into his trousers. 

“We beg you, Mother, to bless the union between Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd and Patricia von Arundel. Send down your spirit like the dewfall and sanctify their rule together. Let their dynasty be blessed with peace! Holy Mother, hear our prayers!”

“Holy Mother, hear our prayers!”

Miklan’s stomach churns, burning red hot. At the altar, the bride’s eyes are cast upwards towards the stained glass image of the Goddess, tears streaking from her purple eyes. It looks like her lips are spelling the words ‘help me’. Lambert doesn’t see it. 

“Bless the crown that Patricia must wear as Queen of the most Holy Kingdom of Faerghus!” 

Glenn’s leaning more into his side. Goddess, how much is he sweating? 

“Keep watch over all of Fodlan!”

Someone’s taking his hand. His nails are caked with silk fiber and blood. When did that happen?

“What’s going on??” Glenn’s asking. Rodrigue’s looking now too, the Merchant murmuring something to him as Rhea lays a heavy silver crown, too rugged for a lady so delicate and fair, onto Patricia’s head. “Why are you so fidgety? It’s almost over.”

Miklan tries to reply, but all that comes out is a gutteral noise that sounds more like a growl than any real words. Lambert and Patricia kiss, Dimitri grimaces in childish disgust, and Felix snorts that Dimitri looks stupid in all that lace somewhere on his left.

The King and his Queen join hands, and walk behind the Archbishop’s procession, their hands tightly linked. They’re quietly talking amongst themselves, and for the first time, Miklan sees Patricia smile.

“Look, Ingrid,” Miklan can vaguely hear Duke Galatea say to his little daughter two pews back. “That’s going to be you and Glenn some day.”

He has to leave. He has to leave and he has to do it  _ now  _ or he is going to cause a scene in the Goddess’s house. As soon as Rodrigue and the Merchant stand up to get out of the pew, Miklan dashes out from behind them, hurrying towards the nearest exit.

Sylvain’s eyes follow him the whole way out the door.

:-:

“What on earth was all that about?” Glenn asks as soon as the cathedral doors clang closed behind them. Miklan stands bent over a few feet away, hands on his knees, panting for breath. 

“If I was in there for one more moment,” He wheezes, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I woulda leapt over the pew and killed my whole family. I swear it, Glenn, I would have.” 

Glenn sighs, dark brows furrowed, smoothing out his rumpled silk coat with his hands. “Miklan,” He tries. “I know that you don’t like them much these days, b—”   
  
“They told Sylvain I ran off!” The words explode out of Miklan’s mouth, as loud as cannon fire. “They told him I ran off with the Merchant instead of telling him the truth! He— They—”   
  
His vision blurs, darkening. Miklan lets out a frustrated howl, and hits the nearest thing to them, the cathedral wall. His nerves go on fire, the digits reflexively curling against the pain, but it’s the only thing that’s making him think straight right now. 

“Those rotten bastards,” He grinds out, cradling his now wounded fist to his belly. “They just want to forget I even exist…!”

Glenn’s been quiet this whole time. He seems to know that no amount of words can help him feel better. Now, he steps forward, taking Miklan’s aching hand in his own, pulling off his leather gloves. The skin underneath the supple material has split, raw and bloody, and Glenn slips a handkerchief out of his waistcoat, wrapping it around the wounds.    
  
“Do you want me to stay with you and the Merchant today?” He asks quietly. “I don’t have anywhere to be, my day is free.”

The offer is tempting. For a moment, at least. Miklan snorts, pulling his hand back and stuffing it back inside his glove, even though the task is now a bit hindered due to the handkerchief. “Thanks but no thanks. I’ll be fine, I just— Just gotta clear my head. They want to play that game and pretend I don’t exist, I can do that too. Fuck’em.”

Glenn looks disappointed for a moment, but the hurt quickly flits away from his face. He pats Miklan on the shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll let the Merchant know where you are. Don’t stay out here too long lest you miss the party, ‘kay? They have food to  _ die  _ for.”

Miklan grunts, and looks away, tucking his glove back under his sleeve. Glenn pats his back and departs, slipping back inside of the cathedral, where droves of people are making their way towards Blaiddyd Castle. The reception’s in the same place the Year End Market’s held, so Miklan knows he can find his way back easy enough. He just— 

Needs some air. Away from everybody. Miklan groans and leans against the cathedral walls, the ringing of the bells shaking the whole building down to its foundation. Maybe some of the vibration will rattle his brain back into place.

“Miklan?”   
  
There it is again, that red-hot rush through his blood, the hair on his neck standing up on end. He barely needs to look over his shoulder to know who it is; it’s Sylvain, now eleven years old, looking just as ridiculous as him in his over-embroidered coat and slightly too loose trousers. Those were probably his at some point.

“Miklan?” Sylvain tries again. “That is you, right?”   
  
“Who else would it be, you moron?” Miklan spits, finally turning to face him. Sylvain physically recoils, a hand covering his mouth.

“Goddess, Miklan, what happened to your  _ face _ ?” Sylvain asks, his voice breaking just a smidge. Puberty was likely starting to creep up on him. “Looks like you got kicked in the face by a horse.”

“Thanks,” The older man says, rolling his eyes back into his skull. “Thanks for noticing that I now have an ugly weal on my face. Don’t you have someplace to be, back with your mommy and daddy?”   
  
The words sound so  _ bitter  _ coming out of his mouth. Sylvain doesn’t seem too shocked by it, too used to their childhood spats. “Well,” The youth starts, fumbling with his fingers. “I wanted to ask you something while you were here. You haven’t been home in so long, I haven’t had a chance to send a letter or anything either—”   
  
“Stop rambling and ask before I leave.”

“Why’d you leave home?”   
  
The silence between them is deafening now, punctured by the squealing bells. Miklan shakes with every ring of the church bells, his lip starting to snarl back. 

“Say  _ what  _ now?”   
  
“Mom and Dad said you didn’t want to manage the house,” Sylvain begins, twirling a piece of hair in his fingers. “So when Lady Merchant came over that last time, you went with her to go see the world. But why? Why go into merchanting when there’s more for you at home?”

Miklan barks out an ugly laugh, the noise deep and guttural enough to make the youth flinch. “Oh, is  _ that  _ what they told you, Sylvain? That I didn’t want to manage the house I have no rights to?” 

“You can still manage the house even if you’re Crestless,” Sylvain tries to point out. “I’d just be in charge of everything else. Besides, you’re— you’re still a Gautier, aren’t you? You should be helping the household survive. Your name’s still good even though you don’t have a Crest.”

The bells continue to toil. Miklan’s head feels like it’s going to explode. 

“So why? Why’d you go?”

He could explain it all. Miklan could tell him the truth, about how their parents sold him off like chattel for less than a pot of expensive tea, less than the shiny pearl choker their mother wore to the service. That as soon as Sylvain was born and presented the Crest, their parents viewed him as a nuisance at best, and ignored him at downright worst. They didn’t like him, they never  _ did.  _ And part of him wants to explain that. He just wants Sylvain to know the truth.

But none of it comes out. Instead, that burning, bubbling rage that tastes like the church incense pours out of his mouth, his lips snarled back like a beast’s. He must truly look the part. “Y’know what, you snarky little cunt? You keep going on and on about Crestless this, Crestless that, rubbing it all over that you’re entitled to everything under the sun— you run back to mommy and daddy and shove that Crest of yours as far up as your ass as it’ll go, because that Crest is the  _ only  _ reason they even love you!”

No. No, wait. That’s not what he wanted to say.

Sylvain’s face crumples. His eyes shine with unshed tears and the glimmer of frustration. 

“Wow, Miklan. Here I thought you could actually act like a real person for once.”

“Good, because you and our parents never thought I was one.” Miklan snarls. 

Sylvain takes a step back, his voice hung in his throat. “F— F-Fine, Miklan. Be like that. Go live your  _ happy  _ life without us.”

With that, Sylvain sniffs, and turns on his heel, and dashes towards the front of the cathedral. Miklan’s left alone, panting and his head tight, pulsing with that familiar anger, that feeling that kept him going during his younger years but now felt so  _ ugly _ .

That— None of that went how he wanted it to. Ugh. 

Miklan leans against the cathedral’s stone wall once more, the bells finally coming to a stop. The church is empty now, save for the nuns and priests that are cleaning up the royal mess, extinguishing all the candles and picking up the left behind programs and praying to the Goddess on the congregation's behalf. 

Nothing he could do about it now, Miklan tells himself. Whatever. Sylvain was gonna complain to their parents either way about him, whether or not he told the truth or ignored him or— something. He could just tack that on to another round of things he couldn’t do right. 

Miklan’s half tempted to not go to the reception. He doesn’t want to look at his parents or Sylvain at all, he just wants to go back to the Guild and sleep. He can’t, though, not without being noticed. Right as he’s about to head that way, the Merchant comes around the corner, her white hair unbound and spilling down her back.   
  
“There you are,” She says softly, as if expecting to find him in such a sorry state. “Do you want to go to the reception?”   
  
Miklan snorts, the noise half-hearted at best. “Not like I can get out of it. Did Glenn save me any alcohol?”

“A mug or two, perhaps.” The Merchant replies, coming to his side. She rests a hand on his back, and he doesn’t flinch away. “Come, now. Let’s go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Miklan mutters, pulling the fresh flower from his lapel and tossing it to the stone. The smell was hurting his head. “Whatever.”

The flower hits the ground, and is crunched under his boot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for fun, please hit me up with critiques and things you’d like to see happen! We have a lot of ground to cover and lots of things to see, and if there’s any way I can make the fic better for you guys I’d love to know. Thanks!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my cosplays are done, thank god. now I can relax a little...
> 
> find me and my beta, Spedira, on twitter at @dedizenoflight and @spedira! Speedy's done some art for Heartlines so im trying to bully them into posting it--

_ I wish to remain nameless, and live without shame, because what’s in a name? I still remain the same... _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1172 _   
_ Horsebow Moon, Day 21 _   
  
_Enbarr, Adrestian Empire_

_ ‘Glenn, _

_ You must be running a prince’s sum on postage from all the letters you’ve been sending me. Try not to piss your old man off, lest he cut you from his purse. And don’t run yourself into the poorhouse if you’re using your salary! I’m not sending you any gold! _

_ Not that you’d like it here anyway. It’s so _ ** _hot _ ** _ down here. We’re by the sea so we’re just about drowning in the air every day. I’ve never been this close to just staying naked all the time. And the fools down here still insist on long sleeves and full skirts and trousers! Says its protection from the heat. Foolishness is what I say! _

_ Business is going as well as it usually does. The Merchant’s running me ragged with managing the garden and the animals while she mans the shop, but it’s not as hectic as it was in Duscur. The Molinaros had so many goddamn cows. You ever get run over by a herd of cattle? Their hooves are sharp and full of shit. I still feel unclean even almost two years later. _

_ I still have your hanky from last year, by the by. I’m gonna send it back in my next letter. I keep saying I will, but I won’t forget this time. Oh, and thanks for the birthday dagger too, even if it is like three months late. I can barely believe I'm nineteen already— or that it’s been almost three years since I was kicked out. _

_ Actually, while I’m thinking about it, why did you tell me Sylvain’s hanging out with your brother in your last letter? I don’t give a shit, Glenn, or at least I’m trying not to. The less I think about them, the better, so stop reminding me that they exist. As far as I’m concerned, the lot of them crashed in some horrible, terrible carriage accident. Very tragic. _

_ Either way, I’m gonna try and keep this short since the Merchant gets pissy when I go over my postage allowance. We’re gonna go be seeing an opera tonight, something called la d’oro Santa? It’s about the War of Heroes or something. Prolly going to be a snoozefest, but the Merchant got the tickets for free, so I suppose that’s good. _

_ Take care out in the field. Don’t do something like trip and impale yourself on your own lance. You have a bride to go home to. _

_ Miklan Anschutz’ _

Good enough. And he finished right before 3 PM too, perfect timing. Miklan quickly blows on the paper, drying the ink, folding it up and stuffing it into an envelope. He pours a bit of wax on the back and presses his ring into it, taking off from the kitchen table as soon as it’s dry. He dashes out the front door and slams the envelope into the mailbox, and just in time too— he can see the postman on his white pony, gathering mail at the villa down the street.

Heading back inside, Miklan sighs and wipes the sweat from his forehead, grabbing a drink from the kitchen’s water pot. His shirt’s halfway unbuttoned and he’s _ still _ sweating like an overworked horse. Might need to take a bath before they went to the opera to stop stinking; if he thought the nobles up in Faerghus were snotty, they were saints compared to the people in Adrestia. He doesn’t want to make any trouble where he can avoid it.

Miklan pads on down to the elaborately tiled bathroom and gets the water going into the porcelain tub, the pipes squeaking loudly. Gonna be a warm bath, he grimaces, seeing as how there was no way to get the water cold without dragging a block of ice out of the kitchen. He dumps a pot of bath salts and some rose oil into the water as well, since they were going someplace fancy, otherwise he’d just suffice with the salt. Shedding his clothes and boots, Miklan slides into the tub, sinking down until the water’s just about at his nose. 

It’s probably starting to get chilly in Faerghus again, while it was still hotter than Hell here. He’d never bathed so much in his life; in this climate he was either bathing every two days, or if it was truly hot like today was, then every day. The Merchant forced him into the tub for special occasions too, and it seemed like there was no end to the ‘special occasions’.

Enbarr was so luxurious, Miklan could barely believe it. Fhirdiad was definitely a city more focused on military while Enbarr bathed itself in decadent arts and fine churches and opera houses even taller than Castle Blaiddyd. The Merchant once said that this was where she did the majority of her growing up after she left home, so she knew Enbarr like the back of her hand. Or… she did, once.

“Everything’s so different since they took the Emperor’s power,” The Merchant had murmured over dinner one night. “I’ve never seen so many guards and patrols before. The taxes are higher than ever and everybody’s been sucking up to Duke Aegir as much as possible.” 

“Why Duke Aegir?” Miklan had asked.  
  
The Merchant had chuckled darkly, and polished off a tall glass of red wine. “Because he’s the one who oversaw the Insurrection of the Seven. He rules Adrestia now. That’s why Patricia, the emperor’s wife, had to run away and go marry Lambert— protection. He would have had her killed otherwise.”

All the political intrigue made Miklan’s head hurt, so he stopped asking questions after that. And now, even though his ears are all filled with water, he can hear the front door’s lock being undone, the door opening and closing. That better not be a robber, or else he’d have to defend himself from the tub.  
  
“Miklan?” The Merchant calls down the hall, her voice muffled through the heavy bathroom door.  
  
Miklan lifts his chin above the water, and decides he really does need to wash, dousing his hair in rose oil and working it into the roots. “In the bath,” He calls back. “Almost done. I know you’re gonna take like three hours to get ready so I’m trying to be quick.”  
  
“Thanks,” She replies, barely taking note of the little jab. There’s some heavy shifting noises in the kitchen, likely her grabbing bottles and jars. “I’m making a quick lunch for us. We’ll eat dinner out after the opera.” 

These were many indulgences that Miklan hadn’t experienced a lot when he was in Gautier Manor. He rarely accompanied his parents out of the house, and only on truly special occasions— Baptisms, weddings, occasionally a birthday here or there. Everything was just too damn far away to justify the cost, the distance, but here in Enbarr, and with the Merchant’s now seemingly endless purse, they actually had something akin to a social life.

Miklan grabs the nearby wash bucket and pours a bucketful of water over his head, scrubbing himself until he can pass for a normal human being again. Climbing out of the tub, he drains it and rubs himself just about raw, getting himself dry enough to make the mad dash down the hall to his room. Like a fool, he forgot to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom with him…

But the dash is a success, and before long, he’s shimmied himself into a nice pair of silky trousers, a white blouse with a dark wine vest, and tall brown boots. Miklan slips his belt on too, sliding his dagger from Glenn into place; only a fool went out without any kind of weapon, even to the opera. His hair’s getting awful long, well overdue for a haircut, so he just ties it back with a ribbon. It’ll be good enough.

By the time he gets out of his room and into the kitchen, the Merchant’s still hurrying around in her work clothes, quickly slapping a creamy bowl of pasta and a few slices of bread onto the table, as well as a glass of wine. “Eat up,” She wheezes, quickly putting things away and hauling her goods downstairs to the vault. “We’ll be heading out in an hour!”

“An hour? Isn’t it only just a bit past 3?” Miklan glances outside to the garden, blanching when he sees the shadow cast at 4 PM on the sundial. Had he wasted all that time daydreaming in the bath? Wasting no more time, Miklan quickly shovels his lunch down, finishing and putting his bowl in the sink as the Merchant hurries upstairs, dashing upstairs to her room to grab a new set of chemise. 

By hour’s end, the Merchant’s bathed and in her clothes, a pretty pink gown trimmed in black, her hair pulled up into elaborate curls. How the woman pulled it off in an hour, Miklan will never know, but now they’re walking down the paved streets to get to the Mittlefrank Opera House. The scent of the sea lingers in the streets, the sounds of a busy port drifting along in the air, and everything just seems... calm and quiet.  
  
Miklan honestly would have stayed at home while the Merchant socialized, but it was too hot to do anymore work or even take a nap. The opera house was kept cool by magic, so he would be able to deal with sitting in a comfortable chair for four or so hours. Besides, it’d be dark too, and half the people in that opera house would be sleeping too.

It’s already packed by the time they get to the opera house. The Merchant flashes their tickets and they squeeze inside, heading up a few elaborate staircases and tucking themselves into their box seats. Honestly, for free tickets, Miklan has to admit that they have a pretty nice view. There’s space for ten more people, and the other boxes are filling quickly, while the floor’s already mostly full of lords and ladies bedecked in jewels and dripping in lace.

“Looks like Manuela Casagranda’s playing Saint Seiros,” The Merchant muses, looking at the program for la d’toro Santa. “That’s no surprise, the woman’s amazing. Let’s see… Oh, this is a debut performance too for a new songstress. Dorothea Arnault…”

Miklan doesn’t reply, already half asleep in the delightfully comfortable chair. It was so much nicer in here than it was at villa… he could fall asleep on the spot as soon as the lights go down, smothered by mages tucked away behind pillars.  
  
“Quick, Ferdie, come on— grab your seat, we’re already late as is.”

The curtain for the box parts, two new people shuffling in. Ah, hell, he knew he couldn’t have gotten that lucky. The two empty seats beside them are, of course, taken. Why couldn’t it be the seats behind them? 

A youth of about nine pulls himself into the seat beside Miklan. Or at least, he swears that’s a boy; he’s dressed like one, in pretty reds and whites, but his soft orange hair is so _ long _and fair that nobody could be faulted for thinking he was a little girl. The youth looks up at Miklan and smiles, sticking a hand out.

“How do you do today?” The youth asks, already so well trained for a little noble. “I am Ferdinand von Aegir. It is a pleasure to meet you!”

Miklan blinks. He was so stiff in his manner of speaking… He quickly takes the youth’s hand and gives it a shake, not wanting to be rude to a kid. Besides, that name seemed awful familiar… “Uh, Miklan Anschutz. Nice to… meet you too?”  
  
Ferdinand beams up at him, pushing himself farther back into his too big seat. With some huffing and groaning and a few curses to all the stairs, Ferdinand’s portly companion finds his way to his seat, sinking down into it with a sigh. “Blast all those stairs. Would it kill the company to install a lift?”  
  
Miklan feels the Merchant shift beside him. He swivels an eye towards her, but cannot divine any emotion on her blank face. Meanwhile, a young lady, the opera’s narrator, has taken her position up on stage, brown hair bound back in a halo and green eyes lined with stage makeup. 

The voice that pours out of that little girl’s throat is haunting. Miklan’s not sure a girl that young should sound so _ mature _, singing of war and famine and the terrible vices of the War of Heroes. Ferdinand settles in more, sinking into the seat, while Miklan decides to eye their new booth companion. 

He’s not much to look at, honestly; the man’s a portly fellow and most of his ruddy orange hair’s already gone from his egg-smooth head, fingers covered with too many rings. Miklan quickly looks back towards the stage when the man eyes him suspiciously, trying to act nonchalant. But in all honesty, the guy’s kinda creeping him out too, with those— _ eyes. _

The man’s brows furrow, and he leans forward in his seat, trying to look the Merchant in the face. His eyes widen in recognition, his voice rumbling out of his throat. “I’ll be; is that you, Aletheia?”

Aletheia. Who the hell was Aletheia? Surely he can’t mean the Merchant, Miklan dumbly thinks for a half second. She’d never been anything but the Merchant or Lady Witch, so hearing a _ name _actually be associated with her is odd. 

But to his surprise, the Merchant smiles. “Duke Aegir,” She greets as the opera on stage gets into full swing, the woman playing Seiros descending to the stage from the ceiling via a harness. “It’s been a while.”

“Ten years, I’ll say,” Duke Aegir replies, leaning back into his seat. Miklan does the same, the familiarity of the situation suddenly striking him in the face— Duke Aegir. This was _ that _Duke Aegir, the one who forced Patricia von Arundel out of the country. The same one people talked about in hushed whispers in the streets, complaining about their high taxes and their increasing food prices.

“Where have you been all this time?” Aegir asks the Merchant, twisting a ring on his thumb. The Merchant shifts a bit in her seat, looking down at the stage and not quite at him. “I suppose not here in Adrestia. You’ve aged well these past ten years, you barely look a day older than when I last saw you.”

“Here and there in Faerghus, for the past few years.” The Merchant’s voice is even and smooth, as if she were talking to an old friend. Her right index finger starts to tap against her armrest, a rhythm of one-two, one-two-three, one-two. “Business has taken me a lot of places. You’re looking good yourself, truly.” 

Aegir hmms, his eyes now taking stock of Miklan. “And who’s this fellow?”

“My guard,” The Merchant’s finger continues to tap, one-two, one-two-three. “His name’s Miklan Anschutz.”

“Miklan…” Now those brows are knit again, Aegir leaning back in his chair and stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Where have I heard that name before?”

While he ponders, Miklan leans in to the Merchant’s side, his voice naught more than a whisper. Seiros is currently vibrating the whole opera house with her voice, dramatically clutching her chest and raising her eyes heavenward towards the Goddess. “What’s up with you?”

“Shh,” The Merchant shushes, as if she were trying to listen in to the play. But her finger continues to tap, a tic he swore she only used when she was horribly nervous. “Later.”

Miklan sighs and resigns himself to not getting any sleep at all. Ferdinand’s busy braiding his hair in the other seat, but Miklan can see the flash of a darkened mark on his wrist, hiding behind his sleeves. A Crest mark— Cichol’s. He forces himself to look back at the stage, swallowing down the instinctive bite that wants to come up his throat. Shut up and watch the opera, he tells himself. Something about this whole situation just doesn’t seem right.

“So,” Aegir starts up again, beady little eyes focused in on the Merchant. “Judging by your purse, I’m going to guess you’ve finally found your foothold in the merchanting world.”

“I am very fortunate.” The Merchant replies, still looking forward. “The Goddess blessed me with fair winds and good sales.”

“Not leaning on your little friend Duke Fraldarius anymore, hmm?”

“No.” Her finger taps even faster. Miklan knows she’s afraid now. “I stopped needing his support long ago.” 

“That is good, I suppose. You two have always seemed… close.”

“Of course. He is a good friend.”

Aegir snorts, as if he doesn’t believe it to be just that. “Yet still you linger with false names and smokescreens.”

“It is better and easier for everybody like that.”  
  
“Is that so? Why pick ‘Lady Witch’, of all names, of all the things you could call yourself?”

A small gasp leaves the Merchant’s lips. “A-Ah. You’ve known that was me?”

“It took me a while to put the pieces together, but yes, I’ve known. So again; why Lady Witch, Aletheia? Referencing your true nature?”

If Miklan were a year younger, he’d ignore the whole affair as politics and leave the Merchant to her devices. But as the stage lights up with magic, Nemesis stepping out on stage in his full and terrible glory, Miklan can tell the Merchant is afraid. It all makes sense; this was the guy she’d pissed off when she was younger. And what a guy to piss off. 

Miklan decides now to speak up, leaning on his elbow and shooting a withering look towards Duke Aegir. “Hey, do you _ mind _ piping it down over there? We came to watch the opera, not play Twenty Questions. And it’s _ rude _to call women names.”

The Merchant’s hand is on his other arm in an instant, squeezing the life out of him. “Miklan,” She whispers. “Shut up and shut up _ now _—”

Ferdinand looks up from his braiding, his brows furrowed from having to tune out the conversation himself. It looks like the poor kid’s done this a thousand times before. “Father, it is indeed very rude to call a woman a witch.”

Duke Aegir splutters, a red flush dancing across his already ruddy face. “No, she— that’s her n—” 

With a huff, the duke looks back towards the opera stage, now taking to ignoring the lot of them. Ferdinand leans into Miklan’s side of his seat, looking up at him with those big soft orange eyes. “Please forgive my father, it has been a long, long day at the Prime Minister’s office. Can you tell me more about Faerghus?”

“Don’t you want to watch the opera?” Miklan gestures to the grand scene.

“Oh, we have seen this one three times already.” Ferdinand snuggles up closer to Miklan, smiling up at him. “Is true you learn to stab a person before you learn how to read?”  
  
Keeping his voice down to a whisper, Miklan indulges Ferdinand in all the ins and outs of Faerghus culture. The child seem happy for a distraction, and while a vein continues to throb in Duke Aegir’s forehead, the older man keeps quiet. The Merchant’s index finger still taps away a mile a minute, but as the curtain closes on Seiros and Nemesis clashing blades for intermission, she blows out a breath that she’d probably been holding in for the past two hours.

Duke Aegir pushes himself out of his chair as soon as the chandelier lights up again. “I’m going and getting some wine,” He grumbles down to Ferdinand. “You stay put and stay out of trouble.”  
  
“Of course, Father.” Ferdinand shoots his father a brilliant smile, fluttering his eyelashes for good measure. Aegir huffs yet again, sends a withering look to Miklan and the Merchant, and he leaves the box to go get that wine. As soon as he leaves, Ferdinand’s shoulders relax, and he turns towards both Miklan and the Merchant.  
  
“Terribly sorry about my father’s rudeness,” He murmurs, bowing his head in apology. Again, it looks like the child’s done this a thousand times before, smoothing out all his father’s messes. “Would the lady like a glass of water?”

“Yeah,” Miklan answers for her, noting the shake in her shoulders. “Go and get that.”

Ferdinand slides out of his seat and leaves the box, the heavy curtain falling closed behind him. As soon as he’s gone, the Merchant moves to shoot out of her seat, but she almost trips on the hem of her gown, Miklan catching her by an arm.  
  
“Hey,” He tries, straightening her up. “What—”  
  
“We’re leaving,” The Merchant gasps out, pushing herself away from him. “And we’re leaving Enbarr.”  
  
“What?” The words barely make sense to Miklan. Leave Enbarr? But she loved this city! Out of all the places they had stayed, this was where they had stayed the longest, where she felt the least inclined to wander. “Leave? No, we’re not doing that. You just paid the house off, you _ just _got established again!” 

“They can have it. I-I can’t live with Aegir looming over my every move!”

“What has gotten into you?!” Miklan gives the woman a few good, firm shakes, the woman softly crying out. He’s faintly aware that there’s some people in the boxes over watching them, probably thinking there’s some sort of juicy drama happening. “Are you seriously suggesting running away from your own home and own company because of one fat asshole??”  
  
“Miklan, please,” The Merchant strains. “You don’t understand—”

“Goddess, woman, have some self respect!” Miklan shakes her again, the scar on his nose tingling something fierce from all the brow furrowing he must be doing. “If I have to fake confidence and fake worth to make it, then you have to do it too! Do you _ really _want to suck up to Aegir that badly?!”

“No,” She whispers. 

“Then abandon at least some of the humble fakery! I have no idea where you begin and where you end and I’m sure half the people you know don’t either!” Miklan finally releases her, painfully aware of how hard he was gripping her arms, the brown color slowly seeping back into her arms. “Don’t run away and give him that satisfaction!” 

The Merchant slowly sinks back into her seat, rubbing her arms. “Running is all I know,” She murmurs softly, staring not at him, not at the curtained stage, but something far, far away. “Running away has kept me alive.”

“It’s made you a boot-licking coward is what it’s done.”

The Merchant recoils a little. That one might have stung too close to home.

“I know I’m not one to talk,” Miklan mumbles, looking back down at the stage. “But at least I’m running towards the world and not away from it.”

They lapse into silence, the sound of the bustling opera house the only sound between them. The curtain parts, and Ferdinand returns with two glasses of water, offering one to the Merchant. “Here you are, kind lady. Have a drink, I am sure you will feel better after.”

The Merchant takes the glass, and Ferdinand offers the other one to Miklan. “Here, one for you as well. Your throat must be parched from explaining all of that wonderful information to me!”

Miklan throws himself back down into his seat, taking the glass and chugging it back in one go. “Eh, it’s no big deal.”

“Oh, but it is! I will be well prepared for the Officer’s Academy now.” Ferdinand beams. “I need to know everything I can about Fodlan if I am going to do well there.”  
  
“Officer’s Academy…? Oh, that school down at Garreg Mach?”

Ferdinand nods. “You look to be of age. Will you be going?” 

Miklan snorts, crossing his arms behind his head. “Absolutely not. It’s no place for some peasant boy like me.”

Ferdinand opens his mouth to respond, but the curtain parts, and his father comes stumbling in, holding a glass of red wine. Duke Aegir sinks back into his seat, and does not look once Miklan or the Merchant’s way, too absorbed in his drink. Maybe that was for the best.

The lights go out again, and they sit through another two hours of opera. Duke Aegir doesn’t speak again; nobody does. Miklan eyes the Merchant, half expecting her to be scared out of her wits, but she seems… a little more relaxed now. Ferdinand coils up into his chair and watches the play, his fingers still playing with his long braid, all up until a soft snore rocks the box. Duke Aegir’s asleep, thank the Goddess and thank all that wine he drank.

“Oh, Father,” Ferdinand sighs softly under his breath. Again, a common occurrence for the boy. He takes his father’s hand and holds it, probably the only time of day he gets to do it, absently twisting one of his rings. “I apologize. But we should let him sleep. He has had a… long day.”

Nobody speaks. It’s better that way.

Seiros screams and slays Nemesis, fake blood gushing from Nemesis’s fatal wound. He falls to the ground, and she puts her foot on his back, raising her sword to the sky and breaking into a reprise of the opening hymn, the choir joining her triumphant song. The curtains come to a close, and the opera house shakes with applause. 

The Merchant pushes herself out of her seat to applaud, as does Miklan. After a moment, though, she heads towards the exit, softly wishing Ferdinand goodbye. He smiles and waves with his spare hand, obviously waiting for his father to wake up on his own, and his smiling face disappears behind the box’s curtain as they depart.

Poor kid, Miklan thinks to himself. 

The two of them join the throng of people leaving the opera house, staying close together to avoid separation. Still, neither of them speak, not until they hit the plaza outside of the opera house, the sun half-sunk into the sea.

“I think you’re right, Miklan.” 

“Huh?”

“About me being a boot-licking coward.” She has a rueful smile on her face now, peeling her gloves off of her arms. “I suppose that’s one way to put it. You’ve probably wanted to call me that for years, huh?”

Miklan clears his throat, looking off towards the port. “I mean. You’re not wrong. You suck up way too hard to all the wrong people and it’s cringe-worthy to see.”

The Merchant laughs softly, pulling the diamond hairpins holding her curls in place out, tucking them into her purse. “I suppose I could work on that.”

“Mmn.” Miklan doesn’t speak much more of it. 

For a bit, they walk in silence. Miklan knows where they’re going; they’re heading towards a restaurant down by the docks. It has great views and great food, so he’s not going to complain one bit about going there for the millionth time. Their squid pasta does sound really good right about now.

“...That wasn’t the way I wanted you to find out my name.” The Merchant speaks again, a little more softly this time. She seems really worn out. “I apologize.”

“I’ve been trying to get you to tell me it for two years so this is nothing but your fault.” Miklan retorts.

“I know. Just… please don’t speak it to others. My name’s been weaponized against me more than once. I’ll use it again eventually, just… not right now.”

“Sure, whatever.” 

“I really am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing and straighten your spine, lady! Start practicing now. Do it like this.” Miklan sucks in an exaggerated breath and puffs up his chest, standing stiff as a board. “You can’t bend to lick the boot if your back’s as stiff as a nail.”

The Merchant splutters with a small laugh, a smile creasing her lips. “I guess I can’t.” 

“So what’d you do to piss off Duke Aegir so badly back in the day?”  
  
“I might have accidentally implied he was losing hair…” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 chapters in about a week?? what the hell is happening--
> 
> this might be the last chapter before I go to Kumoricon unless I can miraculously poot one more out. Look at us go, we're sailing through the years. ahahaaaa--
> 
> find me and Speedy at @dedizenoflight/@spedira on twitter! you'll have better luck reaching Speedy at @spedira on reddit tho.

_ And the heart is hard to translate, it has a language of its own, it talks in tongues and quiet sighs and prayers and proclamations... _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1173 _   
_ Blue Sea Moon, Day 10 _   
_  
Enbarr, Adrestian Empire_

_ ‘Miklan, _

_ I’m happy you still find me amusing enough to write twice a month to me! Here I thought you would have been far too busy with your wild adventures in Enbarr. Thanks for sending the treats up last month; all of us were delighted by the coffee. _

_ Prince Dimitri grows ever larger and stronger. His Highness just about broke my hand the other day shaking it, and he’s not even eleven yet! His Majesty is pleased as can be, though. His Highness will be a magnificent military leader. He’s sharp as a tack these days; but still so terribly shy! _

_ I wish we could steal away down to Adrestia for a week or so. You keep complaining about the heat, but going down there while the weather’s nice sounds divine. I can’t get the time off, though, not while His Highness is being trained, and although Dad loves the Merchant dearly, he’d probably want us to travel as a family. _

_ I’m glad that you stayed in Enbarr, though. When you wrote and told me about the Merchant’s encounter with Duke Aegir last year, I swear I was sweating the whole time. I’m even happier to hear that he’s agreed to ignore you as long as the Merchant pays her taxes! It sounds like he has bigger things to worry about than one woman who accidentally called him bald. And the Merchant loves Enbarr so much, I would have hated it if you had to leave so soon after moving in. _

_ Can you believe it’s almost been two years since we’ve seen each other last? Time is flying by so quickly. You’re twenty now! When did that happen?! I’ll be eighteen in a month’s time from this letter and I already feel old. _

_ You forgot to send my hanky! _ ** _Again_ ** _ ! At this point you might as well keep it. Might be the only thing you have left of me should I be skewered during training! Very nearly happened the other day, poor new guy let his spear fly before I was out of the way. Got a close shave that day. _

_ Oh, by the way— make sure to keep me posted if you move cities again. Dad and Lord Galatea are already starting to plan Ingrid and I’s wedding. Why plan a wedding now when the girl’s only eleven?! I can’t make sense of it, but Lord Galatea’s apparently… eager for us to wed as soon as she’s fourteen. Ugh. _

_ Pray for me, Miklan. I like Ingrid, dearly so, but this whole wedding business has me feeling like my skin will crawl off. Write me again soon, and tell the Merchant I said hello. Hopefully we’ll be able to see each other again soon. _

_ Warmest regards, _  
_  
Glenn Fraldarius_’

“Miklan!” 

Miklan jumps at his desk, quickly folding the letter back up and shoving it in a drawer. “Yeah?”

“Are you done packing?” The Merchant calls from upstairs. “We’re leaving at dawn tomorrow morning, so make sure you have everything!”  
  
“How much do you expect me to take for a single St. Cethleann Day party?!” Miklan calls back, leaning out of the doorframe to his room. “I’m not a noblewoman, I don’t need much! My stuff’s already waiting in the living room!”

The Merchant replies back, but he can’t make it out, and he doesn’t really care to. He goes back to his desk and stares at the start of the letter he’s been trying to write all afternoon. He just— He does want to write back, especially before they go on this trip, but all the words are stuck in his head.

Miklan blames the heat. They’ve spent two years here and he still isn’t used to it in the slightest. And this summer's even hotter than the last! He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but even now, with all the windows wide open, he was still sweating right through all his clothes.

The back of his neck and his forehead are the stickiest parts of him, no doubt thanks to this mane of hair he’s accumulated over the past four years. It— It really has been that long. Some days Miklan can’t believe it, and other days, when he takes in his shaggy looking reflection, it all hits him at once. It’s been four years since he was last at home. Two years since he saw Glenn. A long, long while since he’d been in Faerghus for more than a few weeks.

No word from his parents in all that time, save from the wedding two years ago. Good. Miklan found he liked it like that.

With a rough groan, Miklan caps his inkwell and shoves it and his quill back into a drawer. That letter wasn’t going to get done any time today, so he might as well just wait and write back after the party. He and the Merchant were heading over to Bergliez territory for a St. Cethleann Day party— no idea how the Merchant landed the invite, but she did, and they were going to make connections. As usual. And listen to everybody whisper about the ever climbing price of living and the latest shows of Imperial dominance near Brigid. 

His bangs are in his face. Again. Miklan shoves them back behind an ear, grumbling about how bloody hot it was for the umpteenth time today. Maybe it would be cooler in the kitchen, since it opened up to the back courtyard and the little barn and garden they owned… That’s where he relocates to next, but not before pouring himself a tall glass of cool water from the icebox— and splashing some of that cold water on his face, too. 

Miklan sits, dripping and wet and very quickly becoming humid, at the kitchen table, running a finger across the grain of the wood. The Merchant pads down the stairs, carrying two leather bags in the crooks of her arms, heading into the living room and setting them next to Miklan’s single bag. She sighs, pulling her handkerchief out of her dress pocket and wiping her face free of sweat, red eyes taking a peek over at him.  
  
“My gods, Miklan, you look like a half drowned rat.”

Miklan rolls his eyes, scowling a bit at her. “Thanks.”

The Merchant comes into the kitchen, taking a drink herself and then coming to study the young man. A hand reaches out and takes a lock of his hair, studying the frayed, split ends that no amount of rose oil could fix. “Your hair’s not made for this climate,” She muses, thumbing the red strands. “I should have had you use hair masks…”

“Like some kind of fancy housewife? No thanks.” Miklan purses his lips, trying not to imagine himself in one of those silk nightcaps the Merchant sometimes wore while she deep conditioned her hair. “No surprise this fucking heat’s ruined my hair. I can barely sleep at night with it choking the life out of me.”

The Merchant hmms, and drops his hair, motioning for him to follow her up the stairs. “Come on then. Let’s fix that.”

“What?”  
  
“I’ll cut your hair for you. No worries, I won’t maim you _ that _badly. Promise.”

Miklan’s first instinct is to say thanks, but no thanks, and hack the damn stuff off himself. But with his too big hands and no mirror in his room, he’s liable to hack off too much and look like a child that just found daddy’s razor blade. And with that party they’re going to…

Miklan runs a hand down his sweaty face and pushes himself away from the kitchen table, following the Merchant up the stairs. “You mess this up, I’m punching the shit out of you.” 

The Merchant offers no reply but a laugh, the door to her room creaking open. Miklan hadn’t been up here too much; he didn’t make it a habit to go through the woman’s belongings or step foot in her space, and she had respected that boundary with him too. Her room is a decent size, her four-poster bed tucked against the room’s two open windows, the chest at the foot of her bed cracked open thanks to a cloak blocking the hinge. She has her own bathroom, delicately decorated with floral tiling, and a vanity with a tall mirror and velvet seat, a vice she had indulged in shortly after they moved in.

Now, she motions for him to sit at that very same vanity, disappearing into her bathroom for a few moments. The Merchant returns with a few tools; a large toothed comb made of ivory, a smaller fine toothed comb, a few bottles of hair oil and a pair of scissors that click within her fingertips. Miklan’s suddenly quite nervous— she said she wouldn’t maim him, but only the Goddess knew if the woman knew what she was doing!

The Merchant comes behind him and takes a portion of his hair into a hand, pushing his long, choppy bangs out of his face. “Right then. Keep as still as possible, I don’t want you to look all lopsided. That might be a trend right now, but I’m sure it’s not one you want to follow.”  
  
Miklan shudders, remembering that woman with the most awful asymmetrical haircut at the market the other day. “Goddess, please don’t do that to me. I might really have to jump out a window and take you with me.”  
  
With a small chuckle, the Merchant takes the large toothed comb and starts to work it through his hair, ridding it of the day’s tangles and smoothing it all out. The fine toothed comb works out all the little knots and frazzled hairs, her fingers occasionally plucking a hair here or there. Miklan sits still, as requested, watching the Merchant’s hands work through his hair, her red eyes half-lidded in concentration.  
  
It’s been ages since anybody’s cut his hair. The last time it was ‘officially’ cut was by Ethel, his old nursemaid, about two months before his parents kicked him to the curb. Bless her soul, she tried her best, but her hands were shaky from arthritis so she could only do a little before her hands hurt too badly. His hair had always been long, too— Sylvain kept it short at his mother’s request, and he tried to not emulate his little brother in any way.

By the time the Merchant’s smoothed out his hair, he’s amazed to see that it comes down to his shoulder blades. No wonder it felt like he was being choked in his sleep. The Merchant hmms and studies where she should cut, touching the back of his neck, about where his chin is. “Here good?”  
  
Miklan gives her a mute nod. He watches as the Merchant picks her scissors up, her lips parted ever so slightly as she judges where to snip first. And then, with a small tug, she takes a portion of his hair in hand and begins to gently snip at it, working vertically to feather the strands into a more natural looking cut. 

The man squirms a little, wanting to fidget, but a small pinch from the Merchant reminds him to stay still. Instead, his eyes look out the window, and out towards the Enbarr skyline. From the second floor, he can see the white and red sails of the Imperial ships come and go from port, the sound of seagulls crying out echoing down the city streets. The air is heavy and salty, as it always is in summer, and in the distance, he could hear the cathedral bells begin to ring. It was almost time for late afternoon service, by the number of times the bells toil. The roofs of the nearby villas are painted in bright orange light, and Miklan cannot help but think that it’s beautiful. He could see why the Merchant loved Enbarr so much, even if the taxes were high and even if the nobility could do with a good round of guillotining.

His head feels lighter already, even with the small amount the Merchant’s taken off. She bends over a little more to get a better look at what she’s doing, her breathing gently tickling his ears. This is the closest he’s really ever let her get to him, Miklan realizes with slightly scrunched shoulders. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in a church and sleeping near each other for warmth during long winter months didn’t count. The gesture feels… nostalgically intimate, almost. Like he was a little boy sitting in his mother’s lap. 

The Merchant works a little slowly for his tastes, but he can tell she’s trying not to fuck his hair up too badly. Bits and pieces of his bright orange hair fall in clumps to the vanity seat, down his half open shirt, and all over the front of her frock. She has done this before, Miklan thinks to himself, if she’s being this careful. Maybe she had to cut the hair of her little sisters and her little brother a few times, however long ago that might have been. She always said it was a long, long time ago, and yet the Merchant never seemed to age. She hadn’t gained a wrinkle one in the past four years, almost as if she were cursed, frozen forever at one age.

It was probably vanity spells. Glamors, things of the like. While Miklan hadn’t ever seen the Merchant use magic in battle, he’s sometimes spied her using little sparks of fire to get the kitchen fire going if the coals extinguished, or occasionally heal a cut or two. She had never showed him the magic during their first two years together; only here in Enbarr did she seem comfortable enough to show him glimpses of her skill.

With a flourish, the last bits of his dead, frayed hair falls away, his hair now at a much more manageable chin length. The Merchant comes around to his front and tells him to close his eyes, gingerly snipping here and there to shorten the near chin length hair there. Her fingers push a few strands out of his face, her scissors going snip-snip by his ear, more hair falling to the hardwood floors. 

The woman makes a satisfied noise. She picks up her comb again and quickly runs it through his hair one last time, sealing the deal by pouring a palmful of argan oil into his scalp, working it in with her fingers and her comb. “Wash this out tonight after dinner.” She tells him, drying her hands off on a nearby towel. “Start using it every other wash, and your hair won’t get so dry. So, you like it?” 

Miklan doesn’t respond right away, too busy looking at himself in the mirror. He swishes his head, his hair brushing his shoulders softly, the strands soft and silky now that the dead ends are gone. He even experimentally runs a hand through it, tussling the strands and watching the snipped ends fluff back to their usual, fluffy volume. He almost doesn’t recognize the person in the mirror, having to touch his face a few times to remind himself that yes, that is indeed him in the reflection.

He clears his throat, pulling the hair back to see if it will still fit into a ponytail. It will, it’s just very small now. “I mean, I kinda look like my stupid brother now so I’m gonna have to grow it back out. But it was well overdue.”

The Merchant accepts this as a positive answer and pats his shoulder. “I’ll head down and make dinner. Come down whenever you like.”

She leaves the room, and he can hear the creak of every wood step she hits. She always took them one at a time until she reached the last two, at which point she when up or down by those two… Miklan looks back at himself in the mirror, scooting the vanity seat closer to the vanity’s countertop, his breath coming in oddly hitched. 

All sorts of emotions are swimming around in him now, both positive and negative. Damn him, it’s not like he’s never had a haircut or a shorter trim before. Why did this feel so… odd, to him? It was both good and bad, an affirmation that he had indeed changed, and yet a churning apprehension that yes, he _ had _changed. Even the scar on his face has long healed, helped along by expensive oils. With it and the trim, he almost looks… reborn. Reborn not as the noble-born Miklan, but as a different Miklan, a peasant man just trying to get by.

It suits him. _This_ suits him.

Swallowing back the odd mixture of emotions swirling around inside of him, Miklan picks up a white ribbon from the Merchant’s vanity top and uses it to tie his hair back into a small ponytail. Then he shakes off all the little itchy bits of hair that managed to get inside of his shirt— why the hell was something so small so itchy and pokey? He gives up after a while and heads down the stairs and down the hall to his room, taking this shirt off and replacing it with another one. 

The smell of seared meat drifts down the hallway, a far cry from the simple gamey meals and stews he and the Merchant would eat while they traveled across Fodlan. When Miklan wanders into the dining room, he can see the Merchant diligently working on tucking a pot roast into a thick ceramic pot, slicing a bowlful of root vegetables to go in with it. Once that’s warm and cooking over the stove, the Merchant tucks two loaves of bread into the tray above the ashes, and pulls a bottle of wine down from an overhead cabinet.  
  
“Hey,” Miklan calls into the kitchen, announcing his arrival and sitting down at the dining table.  
  
“Hello again,” The Merchant replies without looking up, pouring out two glasses of wine. She comes out of the kitchen and sets the glasses down on the table, taking a seat nearby him. The other glass must be for him, so he reaches out and takes it, taking in the deep, oaky scent of the wine.  
  
“It… it looks really good. My hair.” Miklan mumbles to her. “I actually really like it. So.... thanks for cutting it.”  
  
The Merchant looks surprised to hear such true words of praise come from him. When she smiles, it just looks so happy and so genuinely sweet, and it punches Miklan right in the gut. She’s never smiled like that at him before. “I’m glad I didn’t butcher you too badly.”

Miklan manages a quick laugh, taking a deep sip of his wine. “Y’know,” He begins, lost in thought as he swirls the red liquid in his glass. “When I was younger, my… mom actually used to cut my hair. Before Sylvain was in the picture. She always nag and nag about how it’d get it matted and dirty whenever I went out to play.”

The Merchant smiles into her wine. “I was the same way as a child. It gave my fathers no end of grief.” 

“But it,” Miklan’s voice stops, not sure where to begin again. “It felt. Nice. Having you do that. It almost felt like how it used to, except you were way nicer about it.”

“Well,” The Merchant replies, putting her wine glass down. “I have to admit, you look very handsome now. I sure hope your mother said the same when she finished cutting your hair.”

Miklan splutters into his cup, coughing on the wine and quickly wiping his mouth. “Y-Yeah, okay, shut up _ ma _.” He mutters with an awkward laugh. 

The Merchant just laughs more, shaking her head and going into the kitchen to get a towel. Miklan mops up his mess, and when the Merchant disappears back into the kitchen, his fingers resume studying the grains of the wood of the dining table, tracing the swirling marks. It was odd, existing like this with the woman. Sitting and having dinner with her and not being so angry at her all the time. Actually being able to hold a conversation. It was… never like that, with his parents. He either ate alone in his room so he didn’t have to deal with talk of politics, or sat in silence while the rest of his family babbled about this or that, Crest this, potential suitor that. 

No way his real mom would have ever hopped into a river for him, like the Merchant had. Frozen or not. To this day, he still had no idea what the Merchant’s motivations for keeping him around were. He’d been nothing but sour to her for the better part of their time together, but he actually seemed halfway put together now. Had she seen that potential inside of him, even back then…? 

Miklan mulls over the thought, quietly nursing his cup of wine. He looks up at the Merchant’s back, studying the way her white hair catches the light of the sunset. 

Who knew. But he was here now, and he was actually… somewhat happy. That much he knew. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kumoricon was so much fun! as fun as it was to have the little break from the story, it's time to get going again! Next chapter will be transitional, then the one after will be solid plot. Y'all know why. :')
> 
> catch me on twitter @dedizenoflight! catch Spedira on reddit/twitter @spedira!

_And then it's just too much, the streets, they still run with blood, a hundred arms, a hundred years, you can always find me here..._

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1174  
_ _ Wyvern Moon, Day 21_

_ Enbarr, Adrestian Empire _

“Long live Princess Edelgard!”

“Hail, Princess!”

“Princess Edelgard, you’ve been missed!” 

The small, brown haired youth rides through the capital streets, surrounded by endless waves of reaching hands and waving handkerchiefs. Cloaked in red and in symbol of the Imperial Eagle, Princess Edelgard waves to her beloved people, smiling down to the little children who reach up towards her, offering gifts of flowers. Her uncle Volkard rides beside her, escorting the little princess back to the Imperial Palace, where her father, Ionius IX, awaits.

Miklan’s eye begins to strain, lowering the spyglass from his eye. He and the Merchant are precariously seated on the top of their roof, like many other citizens, trying to catch a glimpse of the once exiled princess. Their villa rimmed the plaza in front of the Imperial Palace, so they actually had a very nice view of all the festivities. He offers the spyglass to the Merchant and lifts a hand to his eyes, squinting past the sun.

“She’s such a shrimp,” Miklan muses. “Think she got fed enough up in Faerghus?”  
  
“Of course she did.” The Merchant retorts, peering through the golden spyglass. “Her mother and uncle were up there with her, and from everything I’ve heard, she was treated well by the Blaiddyds.”

“Rodrigue said she never saw Patricia, though. Something about her not being well enough to see her or some weird thing like that.”

“Yes, well,” The Merchant sighs, lowering the spyglass from her eye and collapsing it back into its leather case. “That goes in line with what Rodrigue’s told me. At least Duke Aegir finally lifted the exile. I’m guessing Ionius threatened him with suicide or some other unsavory end.”

And Aegir couldn’t afford to have the emperor die. Not yet, at least. The Merchant draws her knees up, watching the waves of red move steadily towards the Imperial Palace. Miklan stands for just a moment more before giving up and sitting down on the roof tiles with her, a gust of wind blowing through the city.

“Something doesn’t seem right, though,” The Merchant muses, a hand pushing some shock white strands out of her face. “I just-- I don’t have a good feeling about any of this. With the talks of war and the unrest... I can only hope Princess Edelgard’s life gets easier after this.”

“Yeah,” Miklan replies a little absently, more absorbed in the tuft of hair he’s trying to braid. “Kid’s had it rough.” 

A cheer rises up from the crowd. Ionius must have just showed up to take his daughter home. Miklan grabs the spyglass and opens it back up, peering across the rooftops and over to the plaza in front of the palace. That kinda grey-headed fellow with elaborate robes is probably Ionius-- yep, Duke Aegir’s flanking him. That’s Ionius. Edelgard dismounts her pony and rushes up to him, throwing her arms around his neck as he scoops her up into his arms.

Adjusting the spyglass, Miklan aims it towards her dismounting uncle, Volkard, who approaches and shakes hands with Duke Aegir. He bends down to let the Duke whisper into his ear, and a smile creases his face. With a nod, they shake hands again, and approach the reunited father and daughter.

Miklan swings the glass over to look at them again. Edelgard’s touching her father’s thin, worn face with concern. The sun catches a line of tears on the old man’s face. Edelgard’s expression twists into one of horror, unaware that the people can see her from the rooftops.

Volkhard and Aegir approach, as if urging them to come inside. Both Ionius and Edelgard quickly straighten their backs, and, holding hands, they follow Volkhard and Aegir inside, disappearing from public view. 

Miklan feels very unsettled. Something about all of this really was wrong.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1175  
_ _ Harpstring Moon, Day 2 _

Things have not gotten better. 

Nobody has seen Edelgard or the other royal children in six months. The taxes get even steeper, gouging foreign merchants. There’s rumors of people disappearing off the streets, and rumors that Brigid spies had been caught in Nuvelle territory. And when Miklan wakes up to the sound of a brick being thrown through the living room window, covered in propaganda signaling the start of the war against Brigid and Dagda, the Merchant gives up on her beloved Enbarr. 

“We’re moving.” She declares, shivering in her chemise, her hunting knife still clenched tightly in hand. Miklan had been the first in the living room, armed with a spear, and she’d joined him just moments later. Thankfully, it’s just the window that’s been broken, but it’s a sign that times are changing, and not for the better. “I can’t deal with the taxes and I can’t deal with the unrest. This isn’t the Enbarr I loved so much as a youth.” 

It’s odd for Miklan, watching the house that had been their home for four years be sold. He’s actually oddly upset as they pack up their most intimate belongings and get them situated on a moving wagon, watching from his balcony as the Merchant tearfully shakes hands with the nobleman who bought their villa. He’s well pleased with the gorgeous house, but all Miklan wants to do is strangle him. This was his home. His life. He didn’t want to just give it all up to some-- some _ stranger _.

But come the next day, the Merchant hitches Darian and Tobias to the wagon, and the two of them set off to leave the Adrestian Empire with most of their worldly possessions piled behind them. It’s all part of life, the Merchant tells Miklan, to keep moving on to new places and see new things. But it doesn’t stop him from being upset about the unfairness of it all. 

“We’re going to Derdriu.” The Merchant murmurs, flicking the reins on the horses’ bridles. “I sent a letter to some old contacts there, and one of them was looking to upsize to a new home. We will be moving into his old one.”

Miklan doesn’t reply, face shrouded by the hood of his cloak. The Merchant goes quiet herself, keeping her eyes trained on the darkening road. She seems to be searching for the right words to say, but doesn’t know how to express them.  
  
“I…” She begins, her voice faltering. “I know that Enbarr was our home. If it weren’t for the corruption and the unrest, I never would have dreamed of leaving. But we have to look after ourselves, Miklan. I don’t want us living in a warzone or have us be taxed into the poorhouse.”

Miklan doesn’t want to admit how attached he became to the villa, and the little shop the Merchant ran her goods out of. For four years, he had lived in those spaces, growing out of the person he once was and into the man he was now. He spent the last few years of his youth in Enbarr; hell, right after King Lambert’s wedding, the Merchant had packed them up again and they set off towards the Empire, settling in at the villa just shy of his eighteenth birthday. And soon, he would be twenty-two.

Enbarr had a lot of good and bad memories, but memories he cherished nevertheless. The work had still been hard, helping the Merchant run the shop and keeping their villa garden bursting with fruits and vegetables, but it had been hard work he had enjoyed. It gave him something else to do than accompany the Merchant to lengthy parties for business deals and snooze through operas. He even got to see some action here and there whenever guests at the Merchant’s shop became unruly, remembering the one time he had to beat a fellow over the head with a broom when he drunkenly grabbed at the Merchant’s bottom. 

Enbarr had felt more like home than the Gautier Manor ever did, even at its very worst. Leaving had… never come to mind. 

“Derdriu won’t be the same,” Miklan mumbles, looking out towards the setting sun. “It won’t be home.”  
  
“We’ll make it into our home again.” The Merchant replies softly. “Plus, in Derdriu, we’ll be able to go to Faerghus much easier. We’ll be just a ship away from Rodrigue’s territory.” 

That’s the only reason Miklan would really ever consider coming back to Faerghus-- for the Fraldarius family. Rodrigue had been overwhelmingly kind to him over the years, always sending him a note on his birthday and during major holidays. Felix he didn’t see enough to form a real opinion on, but… Glenn was just a stone’s throw away in Fhirdiad. It’s been four years, ever since they moved to Enbarr, since he’d seen him. Maybe he could actually sneak up there and go see him. Letters only did so much.

“Do they know that’s where we’re heading?” Miklan asks, genuinely curious. He hadn’t had a chance to send Glenn a letter with how fast and hectic the move had been. 

“Yes, I sent an express letter yesterday. I predicted we’ll reach Derdriu in about… three weeks, if the weather’s good. I’m predicting a relatively smooth ride out of the Empire. It’s getting dark, though, so we should probably stop for the night...”

The Merchant draws the horses to a stop by a group of trees, jumping down from the wagon and getting them unhitched. Miklan slides off of the wagon seat and helps get Tobias undone from the harness, leading both horses to a nearby stream to drink. The Merchant, in the meanwhile, secures the wagon’s wheels with a few thick branches, and sets to work on making them a fire and a quick meal. It’d be bread and cheese and dried meats for a while, until they were out of the territories that banned hunting…

Once the chill of the night sets in, the Merchant crawls into the back of the wagon and shifts a few chests and pieces of furniture around, making just enough room for the two of them to lay down in. She lays out some of the furs and blankets, and even manages to locate a long pillow by the time Miklan climbs into the wagon as well. He makes no complaint as the Merchant wiggles into her side of the little space, pulling back the furs and blankets and letting him slide in too. He doesn’t even bother with taking off his armor— not testing his luck like that again— and places his spear on top of the Merchant’s vanity, snuggling into place in the furs.

The Merchant does the same, slipping her unsheathed knife under her side of the pillow. “Goodnight, Miklan.” She murmurs gently, already drifting off into sleep. 

“Night,” He replies, his eyes focused up towards the cloth roof of the wagon. Sleeping in armor wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but the last time he took it off, he took home the weal on his face, and was robbed of most of his possessions. He thinks he can live with a few hours of discomfort. 

Soon, the Merchant’s breathing deepens. She was still a decently sound sleeper, so Miklan wasn’t too worried about the sounds of his shifting and clanking armor rousing her. He shifts a bit under the covers, trying to find the best angle to lay down in without having a piece of armor bite his skin. Wedging his side of the pillow under an arm seemed to be the best way to go…

It takes him a while to settle in, but finally, his eyelids start to feel heavy. He needed to sleep, if they were taking off in just a few short hours again, he needed every ounce he could--

Snap. Snap. Miklan’s eyes shoot wide open.

There was no mistaking it; that was the sound of sticks being crunched underfoot. Miklan very slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, careful not to shift his armor around too much. It could have been an animal. Wolves were common in this area, same with cougars. Those were much easier to deal with.  
  
But it looks like he will have no luck. There’s another shifting outside, one a little closer to the back of the wagon, then a very soft cough near the front. Miklan’s heart thrums underneath his chestplate; thieves. Of course they’d be attacked by thieves, they had a wagon full of treasure! 

Slowly, very slowly, Miklan bends over the Merchant, placing a hand over her mouth and placing the other on her shoulder. With a firm shake, he rouses her, the woman’s eyes flying open with a gasp. It’s muffled under his hand, and in the almost pitch black of the wagon, he motions for her to stay quiet and places his lips by her ear.

“There’s thieves outside."

The Merchant shifts, only a little, enough for him to know she got the picture. He pulls his hand from her mouth. “How many?” She whispers.

Miklan tries to listen in again and discern if he can hear more than the two he heard. “Two for sure. Maybe more. I can’t tell.”

The Merchant nods, and slowly reaches under her side of the pillow to grab her knife. “Don’t let them know we’re awake. Wait for them to expose themselves.”  
  
As much as Miklan wants to grab his lance and start stabbing through the wagon cover, he knows that the moment they signal that they’re awake, those thieves will be inside and be slitting their throats in moments. Wait. Wait for the right opportunity. All his lessons in Duscur and coaching the Merchant had given him had taught him to read a situation. 

Moving slowly and quietly, Miklan reaches up and grabs his lance, moving it slowly and pulling it down to his level. The Merchant lays quietly, hand still clenched around the handle of her knife, and together, in the darkness, they wait for the thieves to make their next move. 

After a few minutes of heart pounding silence, the thieves finally make their move. Miklan shuts his eyes, trying to appear asleep. He cracks one eye open, just enough to see a hand slowly appear at the back of the wagon, framed against the night sky. It shifts, gingerly pulling the cinching of the wagon cover loose. There’s some more shifting, the material being pulled open bit by bit.  
  
“Two people. Out cold. Lots of furniture. Pretty sure that big box under the chair’s the lockbox.” Comes a whisper. Miklan’s sure he would have missed it if he had breathed in that moment.

“Then grab it and let’s go. I don’t like this.”  
  
“You wanna eat or not?? If they wake up, I’ll take care of it.”  
  
“Goddammit boy, you haven’t even killed a chicken. Don’t talk nonsense. Just get the lockbox and get out!”

With the smallest creak, the thief that loosened the back of the wagon cover steps onto the back of the wagon box, leaning in through the cover’s opening. A hand reaches out for the lockbox, trying to feel for its edge--

The Merchant sits up, fast as a flash, and throws her knife as hard as she can. It embeds itself in the thief’s shoulder, a scream echoing through the silent night, and Miklan takes the opportunity to jump forward, pushing the thief outside of the wagon and onto the ground. There’s chaos in an instant, Miklan unable to see what’s happening in the darkness. His lance rolls away, the nearby horses shriek with terror, and he’s left to blindly grapple with this thief in the dark. 

Not for long. A burst of fire lights up the night, lighting a few of the nearby tree branches up and illuminating the face of the thief he’s trying to pin down. It’s a young man, a few years younger than him, blonde hair pulled back into a choppy ponytail-- and that blast of fire gives him a good look at the other thief, towering above him and swinging his axe down over his head to lop his right off.

Miklan quickly lets go of the blonde thief and grabs for his lance, lifting its shaft just fast enough to avoid having his head completely chopped off. However, the brute force of the axe blade slams the lance shaft against his chin, the protruding axe blade splicing the skin there wide open. Miklan yowls, and pushes against his lance shaft, trying to get the axe out of his face. The thief under him quickly uses the distraction to scramble away, yanking the Merchant’s blade out of his shoulder.  
  
“Goddammit it all, you just _ had _to wake up!” The blonde screeches at Miklan, turning the knife in his trembling hand. Miklan’s stuck, trying to keep this axe further out of this face, his hands straining to push his weakening lance away from his face. His feet scramble against the mossy ground for purchase, slowly managing to push the axe back by an inch-- and that’s enough room for the Merchant to fire another bolt of flames at both the thieves’ chests.

It doesn’t do much more than push them back, singing their chest plates, but it’s enough for Miklan to quickly get back up to his feet. The Merchant’s beside him in a moment, her hands still lit with energy, the first time he’s ever _ seen _ her really use her magic. She extinguishes the fire at her hands, pulling another knife from her boot.  
  
“You okay?” She pants, red eyes wide and looking at the blood leaking down Miklan’s neck.  
  
“M’fine, it’s just a scratch.” Miklan replies, still on guard. He throws an arm in front of her, lance still clenched in hand, surprising the woman. “You keep back, I got this.”

The fire in the trees continues to burn, the whole area lit up with a dangerous flickering orange. The blonde thief staggers to his feet, clutching at his bleeding shoulder as a snarl curls his lip back. The older stands behind him, still clutching his axe. The sight sends a shudder up Miklan’s spine-- that could have been him. This very well could have been him if he hadn’t stayed with the Merchant.

Miklan steadies himself out, arm still poised in front of the Merchant, ready to shield her from more attacks. His heart pounds in his chest, and his head feels light, but there’s no way he’s letting history repeat again. He bares his teeth at the two of them, puffing himself up even more. “Come at me again and I’ll make you hurt even more, you rotten bastards!” 

To be honest, Miklan really does expect them to come at them again. The blonde thief’s shoulders do an odd quiver, his hands clenching the Merchant’s bloodstained knife. He takes a step forward, then a step back, the older, taller thief seemingly waiting to see what the younger will do. Miklan squints at the hesitation; no way these two were average, run of the mill thieves. No protective armor, the larger one didn’t have a weapon suited for sneaking around, and they just-- they don’t have the _ feel _ of seasoned thieves.  
  
The hesitation isn’t normal. He knew enough from the thieves that his father hung in Gautier territory to know that cold-blooded robbers wouldn’t even wait to slit the throat of a woman and her bodyguard. These just seemed like desperate village folk to him.

“You don’t seem like thieves,” Miklan decides to muse upon, yelling it loud enough for the two to hear over the burning tree branches. Something odd flits across the young blonde’s face. “Why are you two slithering around in the dead of night??” 

“What’s it look like?” The blonde barks harshly back at him. In the flickering flame light, Miklan can make out the dark bags under his eyes, the rise and fall of his bony chest under his tunic. The older man continues to wait, eyeing them sharply. “We’re thieving.”

“To be honest, you both _suck _at being thieves.” Miklan sharply points out, gesturing to them. “No armor? A bulky weapon that’s no good for stealth? My mistress could have killed you when she threw her knife at you, no thief worth their salt would be caught dead like that!”

Mistress. The word feels odd on his tongue, not quite right, not quite her. The Merchant’s gaze is questioning now, her eyes darting between him and the two thieves, her hand still clenching her tiny secondary knife. 

“You think we _ wanted _to be thieves??” The blonde man shrilly replies, the Merchant’s knife twisting in his hands. If he got upset enough, he could easily throw that and give Miklan another nasty weal, and Miklan knows that. “We poor folk couldn’t keep up with the taxes! Then the blanket hunting ban went out, then the property taxes and…”

Taxed right into the poorhouse. That’s exactly what the Merchant had been afraid of. 

Miklan weighs his options in his mind, the violent one where he killed them and was done with it, or the one where he tried to talk them down. Then, he makes his choice, lowering his lance arm and holding his free one up to show he was backing down. “Alright, alright, let’s all relax here. Let’s relax. I’m gonna put this down. Tell your tall friend over there to do the same.”

“Miklan, what are you _ doing _?” The Merchant hisses at him. 

“Shut up and put the knife down.” He quickly replies, looking over his shoulder at her. “If they try anything I’ll protect you, but I’m _ trying _to end this with a neat little bow and minimal bloodshed, okay?”

The Merchant’s eyes narrow, and she suspiciously eyes the folk who tried to rob them blind, but she slowly sheaths her knife and holds up her hands to show she wasn’t about to light them up again. The blonde’s throat constricts oddly, the Merchant’s knife still quivering in his hands. Miklan waits, still half bent over his lance, eyes meeting the blonde’s. 

It’s the larger man that moves first, stooping and putting his axe down next to his right side. The blonde whirls around to face him, swaying from the dizziness of losing all that blood. “Ryker, what are you doing?!”  
  
“Milo, that witch’ll light us up faster than a St. Seiros tree if I come at them again.” Ah, so they do have names. The larger man swivels a bright brown eye down at his blonde comrade. “And you’re in no shape to be swinging that knife around anyway.” 

“But--”  
  
“I’m not keen on dying as a thief, boy! Put it down before I take it from you!”  
  
Miklan and the Merchant share a look at each other, but say nothing. The blonde, Milo, huffs and quivers indignantly for a moment, but he finally tosses the knife away, back at the Merchant’s feet. She quickly stoops and grabs it, shoving it into its sheath, and now all of them are unarmed. On even playing ground.  
  
“Can you go rekindle the fire?” Miklan asks the Merchant. “I think we’d rather have a proper fire on the ground rather than all these burning trees smacking us in the head.” 

The Merchant sighs and points behind her, the coals in the smoldering fireplace exploding back into flame. Still keeping an eye on the would be thieves-- he wasn’t _ that _trusting or stupid-- Miklan pulls out their food bag and their medical supplies, pointing towards the now kindled flames while the Merchant goes to smother the tree flames. “Go ahead and sit down. Warm up.” 

Ryker moves without question, leaving his axe behind. Milo takes a moment to come and sit down next to the larger man, his hand now gingerly cradling his bloody shoulder. Miklan rustles around in the medical bag until he finds a spool of fishing string and a needle, some poultice and a roll of bandages. Coming to Milo’s side, he stoops and threads the needle, opening the poultice jar.

Milo’s nose wrinkles up at the poultice’s stench and at the thought of Miklan touching him. “You wanna die from an infection?” Miklan curtly asks, and that ends that conversation. “You stay still while I patch you up. You try anything funny, you won’t like what’ll happen. You got it?”  
  
Milo doesn’t reply, but he also doesn’t protest as Miklan’s gloved hands pull back the shoulder of his tunic. The Merchant’s knife went in fairly deep, but it doesn’t look like she struck anything vital like a vein or a tendon. With careful hands, Miklan sinks the needle into the side of the wound, slowly bringing the muscle and skin back together. He had to do this once when Tobias sliced his leg on a fencepost, and it’s much easier to do if he just thinks about that. Milo, to his credit, sits still and only hisses a bit while he sews him back together.

Cutting the thread with his teeth, Miklan packs the area with poultice and bandages it up. Probably not as good of a job as the Merchant could have done, but it will do.The Merchant returns to the fireside, still eyeing them, and Miklan returns to her side. He opens up the food bag, skewers a few sausages, and sticks them into the fire to heat up. Hunger was bound to drive any sane man to madness. 

They all sit in an odd, awkward silence for a while, staring at each other with distrust. It seems like everybody’s waiting for the other side to make a move, and when Miklan reaches out to pull the sausages out of the fire, Milo’s hand darts towards his belt. With no knife to grab, he just sits, fidgeting, until Miklan holds out a hunk of bread, a slice of cheese, and a sausage for both of them.  
  
“C’mon and eat up. You’ll be more willing to talk with food in your gut.” 

Ryker reaches out and takes his share without question. Milo makes a weird, questioning noise, finally reaching out and taking it like they poisoned it. But it doesn’t take long for hunger to win out, the blonde quickly cramming the bread into his mouth and biting through the meat as fast as the heat will allow him.  
  
The Merchant quickly looks over at Miklan, looking at the blood drying on his chin and neck. “You want me to heal that?”  
  
“Nah. Just get me a cloth to get the blood off.”

The Merchant pulls out her handkerchief and passes it over. Miklan pours a little water from the nearby waterskin onto it and wipes off the flakes of dried blood, hissing as it passes over the cut on his chin. That was going to scar for sure…

The Merchant opens her mouth to speak, but Miklan holds out a hand and shakes his head. “Let me handle this,” He murmurs over to her. “I think I got it.”

With a nod, the Merchant quiets herself and thumbs at the handle of her now sheathed hunting knife. Miklan folds up the handkerchief and waits until the two are mostly done eating to speak again, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. “So you two got taxed into the poorhouse, huh?”  
  
Ryker’s the one who speaks, Milo still too busy shoving his share of food into his face. As Miklan thought, having food in their stomachs seems to have cleared their heads a bit. “I lost my business thanks to the last wave of tax raises. Milo here lost family young and couldn’t stay at the youth house. Had to trim the older ones off to feed the younger kids.”

Milo hmphs mid-mouthful of cheese. Miklan’s half tempted to ask if the attitude helped, but that wasn’t going to make anything better. “So how’d you two meet?”  
  
“Ran into him on the way out of town.”  
  
“Hah, that code for he tried to rob _ you _ too?”  
  
Surprisingly, Ryker stifles a chuckle, Milo growling into his bread. “Tried and failed rather spectacularly. But I didn’t feel right leaving him by himself, so me and him have been wandering the countryside for the past week or so towards the border. You’re the first to pass by in the area.”

“How’d you get by? A week’s a good while to go without food.”  
  
“River’s got clean water and I learned to forage young. But meat’s impossible to come by…” 

Miklan frowns. An axe definitely wasn’t going to serve anybody well during hunting, and with that hunting ban he mentioned earlier, getting caught meant either a lashing, or a hanging. Aegir must have been chuckling into his wine when he signed that piece of legislation into law, the fat bastard. 

“We thought,” Ryker has to clear his throat to finish, Milo now sitting quietly and glowering at the lot of them. “We thought that with Princess Edelgard’s return, things would get better. But it just seems like the emperor’s forgotten about us.”

“Why do you think we’re packed up?” Miklan gestures towards their wagon, taking a swig out of the waterskin. The Merchant’s picked up a piece of wood and is absently whittling at it, listening in with a keen ear in case she needs to step in. “My miss is one of the best merchants in the whole country and we had to bolt. Upper middle class and lower class is getting completely fucked dry by the taxes. We’re headin’ towards the Alliance and you should too.”

“How?” Milo finally decides to speak up, green eyes sharp. His fingers twitch against his legs, thrumming against his calf. “We got no horses and no food and no money. We’d be dead in a few days.”

Miklan looks over at the Merchant. She can already tell what he’s planning, and while she doesn’t look too keen at the thought, she nods. He said he could handle it, so she’s trusting him to do it.

“Come with us and earn your keep. I’ll pay from my own pocket and we’ll drop you off at the border. You can make your way to wherever you wanna go from there.” 

Ryker’s eyes widen a bit. Milo huffs and spits over to the side, still glowering. “You’re playing awful nice to us and I don’t like it. What’s your game? You gonna get revenge for us trying to rob you?”  
  
“Look, kid,” Miklan starts, a vein throbbing in his forehead. He counts back internally in his head to three, and starts again. “Look. You just need an opportunity to get yourself on your feet again. You said it yourself, you don’t want to be thieving. And when I see you-- I’m reminded of myself. Of what could have happened to me if my miss hadn’t given me a chance.” 

Miklan hears the Merchant take in a slightly sharper breath. Ryker’s quiet, waiting for Milo to speak. And for a few moments, it seems like he won’t, his eyes cast off now towards the fire and his dirty nails digging into his calf.

“...Fine.” Milo finally spits out. “As long as you don’t slit my throat in my sleep.”

“Only if you make eyes at the miss. Ryker, how about you? We can use a strong hand when we start crossing the mountains.”

Ryker nods, much easier to convince than Milo to hop on board. “I worked in the lumber yards for a long time before I started my business. If your wagon happens to break, you’ll be happy to have me.”  
  
Miklan shoves a piece of wood into the fire to spark it up, standing up and stretching out. “It’s a deal then. Since we’re all awake we might as well wrap up and get on the road. Miss, what do you think?”  
  
“I think you could sell water to a drowning man.” The Merchant actually sounds oddly impressed with how he was able to masterfully turn their situation from a robbery to a hiring opportunity. “Come then, hurry up. If we get on the path we can have one of them walk ahead of us with a lantern. If we do shifts, we can probably get to the border faster…”

The Merchant stands and gets stock of the situation, starting to hitch the horses back up. Miklan wanders to the back of the wagon, and after pulling the lockbox key out from around his neck, he unlocks it and finds his purse. He had to get these guys to trust him, and he thinks this is the way to do it.

“C’mere, both of you. If you’re making a contract with me, you get paid a share up front.” 

“We could just take the money and bolt tomorrow morning.” Milo points out. “It’d be really easy to do.”

“Then that’s a reflection of _ your _character. Not mine, kid. Hands out.” 

The way his eyes widen when Miklan counts out coins worth a thousand gold is half hilarious, half sad. Ryker’s eyes glisten with tears as Miklan gives him his share too, putting his purse back into the lockbox and securing it once more. “You’re gonna be worked real hard and you’re gonna work for every coin and every meal. But if you stick with it, I promise you’ll be having a much better time in the Alliance than here.”

It’s settled, then. Ryker takes up a lit lantern from the Merchant, and after they smother the fire, they set off down the road once more, the older man lighting the way. Milo’s posted at the back of the wagon, sitting on the back lip, told to watch for anything that might try to come at them from behind. Miklan takes his post by the Merchant again, and he suddenly feels very, very tired.

“Goddess, I don’t know how I did that.” He murmurs over to the Merchant.  
  
“You’re very charismatic when you want to be,” The Merchant says. “And you gave them an opportunity to feed themselves and leave the Empire. I… Miklan, I really mean this, I am so proud of the way you handled that. You’ve grown a lot.”  
  
Miklan scrunches his neck down into his shoulders, not looking at her. “You won’t be sayin’ that if they decide to slit our throats.”  
  
“You think they will?”  
  
“Well, no...”

The Merchant chuckles a little, half-lidded red eyes cast out towards the bobbing lantern in front of them. “I wasn’t sure at first, but I think we’ll be okay. You think you can drive while I catch another hour of sleep?”

Miklan leans back against the wagon cover, taking the reins from her. “Yeah, I got it. Sleep up here where I can watch you. Let’s not be stupid with these two.”

And so she does just that, curling up on her half of the wagon seat and falling asleep right away. How the Merchant manages to compact herself up into such tight, uncomfortable spaces for sleep, Miklan will never know; probably from her early days of merchanting and staying out in the wild. 

But it feels… good, to drive the wagon and to be keeping an eye out on those two. The Merchant trusted him enough with her goods, her business, her life. That had to mean something. And these two seemed to be trusting him enough to lead them towards a better life.  
  
What he had said was true, after all; seeing Milo reminded him of his younger years. Had the Merchant not come around and taken him, he could have easily ended up like him too. Hell, even back in those days, he had closed his heart to her attempts to guide him and left her in Fhirdiad, angry and directionless. Had it not been with his run in with Jinhai and his little crew, he-- he probably would have gotten to Galatea to find no opportunities waiting for a Crestless mercenary. 

And with no opportunities, no name, nobody to back him up, what would he have done? He would have been left to resort to thievery, just like these two had to. If he was able to convince these two to lay down their arms and come with him, he probably could have convinced them just as easily to come with him and rob more people.

Miklan shudders thinking about it. No. He never wanted to end up like that now, not ever. In some weird way, he just-- he wanted to help Milo and Ryker out, and steer them towards a good path. And if it was in his power, he was going to do it. 

Miklan sighs and guides Tobias and Darian back towards the center of the road. They still had a long way to go. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no the bad times are beginning--
> 
> twitter: @dedizenoflight
> 
> Speedy on reddit: @spedira

_ When the night has come and the land is dark and the moon is the only light we see, I won’t be afraid, oh, I won’t be afraid, just as long as you stand by me… _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1175 _ _  
_ _ Harpstring Moon, Day 25 _

_ Derdriu, Leicester Alliance _

“There it is!” The Merchant calls behind her. Milo’s blonde head of hair pokes itself out of the front of the wagon, sleepily mumbling, Miklan startling awake himself. The Merchant points forward, down the hill they’re cresting, at the bustling oceanside city down below. “There’s Derdriu!” 

Ryker stands on the back lip of the wagon, supporting himself with the wagon cover’s metal framework, looking down at the city in awe. “It-- it’s so big. I’d never left Goslar before…”

“Right,” Miklan yawns, stretching his arms above his head. “You and Milo should be able to find work and board pretty easy down there. It’s a lot bigger than your little village.”

Things hadn’t quite gone according to plan, but Miklan supposes things worked out for the better. The plan to drop his little charges, Ryker and Milo, off at the Alliance border didn’t quite work out when the wagon’s back axle snapped right in two after they crossed Myrddin Bridge. Ryker had decided, after fixing it, that they might have better luck getting work in Derdriu instead of walking to another territory, and Milo wasn’t too keen on wandering off by himself.

And so, they stayed the whole three weeks to Derdriu, and worked their asses off too. Ryker had really proven himself handy when the axle had snapped, but he was also very good with the horses too, guiding them across the rocky mountain paths and through the muddy plains with ease. Milo was still very surly, but he was good with cooking and was actually quite handy with a knife. 

Surviving the moment they got out of the richer territories of the Empire had been easy. In areas where the hunting ban couldn’t quite so easily be enforced, Miklan taught Milo how to stalk prey animals and how to field dress them properly. The kid really had been quite proud of himself when he managed to bag his first clutch of geese, it was almost adorable. Ryker had proven himself adept at foraging, as promised, and the Merchant was well pleased with all the healing herbs he managed to find by one of their riverside camps.

As soon as Miklan secured them jobs somewhere in the city, they would be parting ways. The Merchant had to go to one side of town to go meet her friend and pick up the keys to their new home, so he figured it wouldn’t be too hard to get them down to the docks and find something for them to do. Ryker hops down from the back of the wagon to help guide the horses across one of the great drawbridges leading into Derdriu, the smell of the sea choking the air. The salty scent awakens that desire to be back in Enbarr for Miklan, but there really was no going back now.

Enbarr, being the biggest city in all of Fodlan, could encompass Derdriu four times. But Derdriu was lovely in its own right, Miklan supposed. It emulated Enbarr with canals running through the city, white-flagged ships sailing out to the distant horizon. Unlike in Enbarr, where Miklan could see the distant mountains across the ocean bay, here the sea just seems to go on forever and ever…

Miklan hops off the wagon once they cross the city gate, his legs tight and stiff from sitting for just about three weeks straight. He pats his pants down, making sure he still has his purse in his pocket. “Meet me down at the docks when you’re done! I’m gonna see if I can’t get these two jobs.”

The Merchant smiles and flicks the horses’ reins. “Sounds good. I should only be an hour or so. Take care!” 

She sets off towards the other side of Derdriu, towards one of the neighborhoods lining the countryside, and the three men walk down towards the docks together. Ryker’s in awe, admiring the many white sailed ships, and even Milo seems more animated than usual. There were so many little shops and bars, and so many ships, that there really shouldn’t be an issue finding work.

And Miklan’s right. After taking a peek at one of the city’s announcement boards, he finds a ship with white sails and a yellow checkered flag, hailing down one of the workers on the ship. “Hey, you up there! I heard you need some ship hands?”

The middle aged man wipes his brow, putting a crate down. “That’s right! Did you see the sign?”  
  
“Sure did. I got two workers right here for you.” Miklan jabs a thumb over at Ryker and Milo. “They just crossed the width of Fodlan with me and my miss. I can vouch for their skills and their adeptness, and so can my miss when she comes back from business.”  
  
“Well, get them up here!” The man waves them on, pointing towards the gangway. “Let me take stock of them.”

Miklan’s honestly kind of surprised it happens as fast as it does, but by the end of the hour, both Ryker and Milo have jobs working for the ship. It turns out to be a mailing company that just lost a few workers thanks to plague, so they’re glad to take them on. Ryker’s in tears when the Merchant returns to the docks and vouches for them, and so is Milo when Miklan finishes counting out their final pay. He’s a lot poorer than he was expecting, but getting these guys on the right path was worth it.

“Thank you,” Ryker half cries into Miklan’s shoulder, hugging him so hard Miklan thinks his ribs will break. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for us. Milo and I will always be in your debt.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Miklan wheezes. “No problem.”

“Well, if I’m going to die, at least it’ll be out at sea, which is much better than dying of starvation.” Milo shrugs, swallowing back a weird sob. It’s his way of expressing gratitude, so Miklan just claps him on the shoulder and wishes them both luck as he climbs back into the Merchant’s wagon, the two of them watching their backs disappear into the crowd.

“They’ll be just fine.” The Merchant muses as they vanish. 

“Yeah. They’re good guys. I think it’ll be okay.”

She straightens her back, and points to a blue-roofed house on the other side of own. “See that? That’s our new home. Just a few streets down. Let’s get going, I’m sure the horses would like the rest.”

They ride off, and as the Merchant promised, the house is just a few busy streets down, tucked neatly between a few other modest seaside villas. The house is built up high on walls to avoid the tides, just like the houses down on the ocean-facing side of Enbarr, with stairs leading down to the sandy beaches on the other side of the house. 

Derdriu wasn’t Enbarr. It wasn’t home just yet. But he had missed the sea so much that even just being by it again lifts his spirits. Grabbing his pack, Miklan jumps from the wagon seat and follows the Merchant up the stoop and onto the porch, watching her undo the locks on the heavy wooden door. 

The Merchant pushes it open, and Miklan wanders inside of the mostly empty home. The fellow who lived her before them left behind a few essentials; tables, chairs, bed frames and the like. The whole place smells delightfully woody, like fresh oak, the Merchant sighing happily when she takes stock of the floor. “Ah, he _ did _replace the floors as promised. Thank the Goddess for that.” 

Miklan runs a hand over one of the tables, taking in the grain of the wood with his worn fingertips. There was a staircase leading upstairs, probably to bedrooms, the bathroom tucked off down a small hallway and the kitchen and dining room overlooking the sea. This place was definitely smaller than the villa in Enbarr, but it’s… cozy, in a way. A small space for the two of them to do business out of. 

There’s a small attached stable, which is where the Merchant goes to take Tobias and Darian while Miklan continues to look around the house. The bedrooms upstairs are rather spacious, already assuming the larger one will be going to the Merchant, and he lays his pack down in a room with a little reading nook carved into the windowsill. The spare bedroom is likely for guests, and still has an outfitted bed as such, so he leaves that room alone. 

He comes back down the stairs and stands in the empty space, looking around with his hands tucked deep into his pockets. So… this was it. This was their new home, however long it might be. It was no Enbarr, but he was just going to have to get used to it. As the Merchant said, maybe with time, maybe this place could become a home...

But for now, there’s one thing he wants to do. Miklan goes to the back door and undoes the deadbolt, pulling the heavy thing open with a loud squeal. Instantly, the woodsy smell of the house is cloaked with the smell of kelp and salt water, Miklan poking his head out the back door. The back porch back here is pretty big, large enough to host a little party, a fire pit built into the stone floor. There’s a steep staircase that leads down to the sandy beach below, and he just-- he has to go down there. 

Miklan kicks off his shoes and socks and wanders down the stairs and down to the beach, sinking his toes into the delightfully warm sand. He and the Merchant had rarely had the time to go to any kind of beach-- the ones in Enbarr were always packed and both of them hated crowds. But here-- this… this was beautiful.

Even the ocean waves are warm when Miklan walks into the muddy surf, the foamy waves tickling his legs. Miklan’s whole body is overtaken by trembles, rubbing his arms to will the goosebumps away. He wasn’t sure how long they’d be here, and Derdriu would never be feel quite like home, but… if he got to be down here by the ocean every day, he supposed Derdriu wasn’t so bad. 

“Miklan!” The Merchant calls for him from the porch, leaning over the stone railing. She must have come back in to find an empty house. “You can swim later, but right now we have to get our stuff inside!”

Miklan pulls himself together, blowing out a breath and reaching up to redo his messy, greasy ponytail into a bun. “Coming, coming!” 

As much as the Merchant would like for them to get everything into their respective rooms immediately, some of their things are just so damn heavy and the house’s dimensions are so much different from the old villa’s that they have to settle with just getting everything into the living room. The kitchen’s not quite as grand as the one in Enbarr, but the Merchant’s at least grateful they still have an icebox. Dried goods and spices go into the pantry, dishes get put away, pictures get hung, and by sundown, the place looks a little more like a house. 

It takes a bit to figure out how the bath works; there’s pipes that draw in the water, and it seems to be heated by a tank underneath the tub, but getting hot coals in that tank’s one story, and then pumping the water in is another. But once he does figure it out, Miklan calls for the Merchant to bathe first, then replaces the water and washes up himself, groaning in delight at the first hot bath he’s had in almost a month. 

His hair is getting long again, but it’s now kept in fairly decent shape thanks to him actually taking care of it. Miklan rather likes the long look, to be honest. Made him look less like the closely trimmed Gautiers. Combing some rose oil into his hair, he redresses for the night and finds the Merchant preparing a quick cold meal for them, the two of them sitting at the table and eating the remnants of their pickled vegetables and bread from their cross-country journey. 

They’re too tired to haul their mattresses up the stairs, so they just opt for sleeping on the Merchant’s large mattress in the living room, coiled close together. Miklan’s finally used to sharing such close quarters with the Merchant that it wasn’t odd to him-- after all, the two of them were pretty much tucked right next to each other during the Duscur winter for warmth. Goddess, if he thought Faerghus was cold...

Miklan doesn’t sleep well that night. Everything felt too new and he could still feel the swaying of the wagon. The Merchant does, as per usual, sound asleep underneath her favorite grey fur. Miklan turns onto his side, facing her, watching the rise and fall of the woman’s side. There was still so little he knew about her, even six years later… it was still a rare day when she felt secure enough to discuss her life before merchanting. Whatever trauma she endured as a young woman, it ran far deeper than he could discern. 

He shifts a little under his blanket, sighing and closing his eyes. Maybe he could begin asking her about it again, now that they’re starting to settle down again. For every new place they lived, she’s told him something new. Maybe she would tell him something new soon...

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1175  
_ _ Harpstring Moon, Day 26 _

The Merchant rises at dawn, and silently leaves the house with her purse in hand. Miklan pulls the covers over his head and tries to catch a few more hours of sleep, but finds himself completely restless. With a groan, he pulls himself out of bed and takes it upon himself to start moving some of this furniture around. Least he could do was get some chests and whatnot in order.

Just after the sky goes from rich red and yellow to a pretty blue, the Merchant returns, laden down with fresh produce and meat. They indulge in a hot breakfast of eggs and bacon before getting to work on getting the house in order. Miklan didn’t have much in the way of worldly possessions, just a crate and a chest or two, but the Merchant had an entire business she had to somehow fit in the house until they could rent a shop. 

They work on Miklan’s room first, getting his mattress situated and redressed with its usual linens. Miklan runs his hand over the prettily embroidered quilt top, musing that this was one of his first purchases when they moved to Enbarr. Little pieces of their old life keep showing up around the house; the Merchant’s bed linens, her dresser and vanity, their mosaic styled dishes. It’s an odd mish-mash of people and places, as the Merchant drapes their woven blanket from Duscur over the back of their couch, and it hits Miklan just how many miles they’ve traveled in six years. 

Needless to say, neither one of them are expecting a knock at the door while they’re unloading more linens into a chest. The Merchant purses her lips, wiping her hands off on her dress sides, Miklan suspiciously looking at the door. “Maybe it’s a neighbor.” The Merchant muses. “I’ll go see who it is.”

The Merchant heads to the door and stands on her tiptoes, peeking out of the carved window. She lets out a shout, startling Miklan enough to grab for one of the daggers he’s putting away, brandishing it. To his shock, the Merchant not only opens the door, she launches herself at the person there for a hug, into the familiar arms of…

Miklan can’t help it. Mouth agape, the dagger slips from his hand, embedding itself into the polished wooden floor with a thud. “R-Rodrigue?!”

Rodrigue Fraldarius smiles, putting the Merchant back down on her two feet and kissing the back of her hand in greeting. “Four years is far too long apart! I was fearing you might be trying to break your six year streak, so I took the liberty of packing my boys up to come help you settle in.”

“Surprise!” Miklan chokes as Glenn hops out from behind his father, grinning smugly at Miklan’s shock. “I’m on break for the next month, so when Dad said we’d be heading here, I knew I had to come surprise you!” 

“I don’t even know why I’m here.” Felix, who is now twelve and very moody, grumps with crossed arms. 

“To help these morons _ unpack, _silly.” Glenn shoves Felix inside, whistling as he takes the little seaside house in. “Smells real nice. Fresh new floors too! ...And there’s a knife sticking out of said floor. That an included amenity or…?”

Miklan quickly gathers himself back up, grabbing the knife and shoving it inside of the sheath. “How-- when-- how’d you know we’d be here by now?!”  
  
“Lady Witch’s letter!” Glenn reaches over and ruffles Miklan’s hair, prompting the older man to swat his arm away. “She said you two would be at this address in about three weeks in her last letter. Well, it’s been three weeks, so here we are! Dad said he figured you would need the help for getting settled in.”

Miklan’s just-- still in shock that Glenn, Glenn fucking Fraldarius is here in their house. He hasn’t seen Glenn in four years, not since the royal wedding in Faerghus, and he looks… a lot different. He’s nineteen now, seeing as how his twentieth birthday hasn’t quite rolled around yet, a few inches taller, and his hair’s longer too, little braids woven against his scalp and pulled up into his ponytail. He’s not wearing his coat with the Blaiddyd royal crest on it, dressed simply in a white shirt and slacks-- in fact, all of them are, probably so they can help move stuff around.

The Merchant is quickly pulling back her hair now that the moment has passed, trying to get herself presentable. “Rodrigue, it’s been four years since I’ve seen you and you couldn’t even give me a courtesy warning?! I look like garbage right now!”

“I’ve seen you look worse.” Rodrigue supplies smoothly. He walks into the living room and picks up a wooden crate with ease, looking up towards the stairs. “Which one is your room? I doubt a crate of fine gowns will be going into Miklan’s room.”

“You wait!” The Merchant shrieks, dashing up the stairs to get out of her casual dress and chemise. “You wait until I’m fully dressed before you do anything!”

Rodrigue laughs, and waits until the Merchant comes flying down the stairs, hastily dressed in a pair of slacks and a red blouse, her hair flung up into a quick bun. After that, he passes her a crate, and helps her carry a few things upstairs, Glenn tossing a box at Felix and telling him to start moving stuff around too.

“Glenn, you--” Miklan starts to open his mouth, but is shushed by a finger on his lips, Glenn looking at him beseechingly. He looks… tired, actually. Probably from the trip across the ocean to the Alliance, probably from following Prince Dimitri around like an obedient puppy, from planning his wedding, to just about everything.

“Not now,” Is all Glenn has to say, mustering up a tired smile to Miklan. “Let’s do what we came to do first. It’s all Dad’s been talking about for the past week, so I think it’ll make him happy. But I have a lot to tell you.”

It’s been four years and now Glenn wanted to wait to talk?? What on earth was going on inside of his head? It’s not like Miklan can get anything out of him, not after Felix lightly kicks him in the shin to ask where on earth he should put all these weird pieces of jewelry. Those were the Merchant’s most expensive pieces too, so he quickly snatches it out of his hand and takes it down to the lockbox. 

The house descends into a flurry of activity, and it’s moving way too fast for Miklan’s liking. His mind still can barely wrap itself around the fact that the whole Fraldarius family is here, _ here _in Derdriu. How did Rodrigue pull this off, why did Glenn have a month long break when he should be in Fhirdiad guarding the royal family? Why did Felix seem even more sour than usual? There had to be another reason for the meeting, more than Rodrigue deciding to come here on a whim. As much as he loved the Merchant, Miklan doubted he’d drag his whole family here just to help them unpack.

By ‘unpacking’, it seems the task has been delegated to them while Rodrigue and the Merchant talk as they _ slowly _move boxes around. They speak in hushed tones upstairs, not loud enough for Miklan to eavesdrop on, and whenever he tries, Glenn pulls him away by an ear. Felix accidentally breaks a plate, causing a bit of excitement for a few minutes, but he’s reassured that with some glue, the Merchant probably wouldn’t notice. Probably.

After two hours, the place is looking a lot more presentable, the living room actually emptied of everything save for what belongs there. Their bedrooms are now fully stocked with their furniture and clothes, and they break so the Merchant can run down the street and bring home a hot meal. As much as Miklan wishes everybody seems at ease, there’s… an odd feeling in the air. Some sort of finality. The Merchant’s face betrays no unusual emotion, but throughout their entire meal, her right index finger taps on the tabletop, and Glenn’s bouncing a leg.

Something’s not right.

Glenn and Miklan are told to wash the dishes while the Merchant, Rodrigue, and Felix disappear to the back porch to talk more. Glenn doesn’t speak the whole time they wash up, brows knit in concentration, and Miklan just-- everything just felt super weird and he wanted to ask about it. But he couldn’t, not yet.

After everything is dried and tucked back into their cabinets, Glenn sighs and dries his hands fully. He motions for Miklan to follow him, out of the back door, and down to the beach where the crashing waves would hide their voices.

“C’mon. I really need to talk to you.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today (nov 21) is my birthday! I was going to wait until Friday to post but I want to give you all a little birthday treat. 
> 
> The next few chapters are going to be divided up due to their lengths. Also, per Speedy's suggestion, I am moving updates to EVERY FRIDAY. So you get one chapter a week! This is to ensure quality control and that I have enough material to go around. If i miss a week, the update will be THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY. basically keep an eye out on fridays lmao.
> 
> thanks so much for your continued support!
> 
> twitter: @dedizenoflight  
reddit: @spedira

_ Oh, who decides from where up high? I couldn’t say “I need more time…” oh, grant that I can stay the night, or one more day inside this life… _

  
  
:-:

_ Imperial Year 1175  
_ _ Harpstring Moon, Day 26 _

_ Derdriu, Leicester Alliance _

Glenn opens up the back door, swaying from its weight, informing his father that he and Miklan were heading down to the beach. Miklan can’t see it, but he hears Rodrigue make an affirmative noise, Glenn waving Miklan out onto the back porch. He exits the house and pulls the door closed behind him, and curiously regards the party already here.

Felix’s sitting back as far as he can in his chair, knees pulled up and arms crossed. If Miklan squints, he swears he can see the glimmer of unshed tears in his bright brown eyes. Glenn’s already heading down the stairs, kicking his boots and socks as he goes, Miklan grumbling and following close behind. Why was he the only one left in the dark?

Miklan follows Glenn all the way out to the surf, where Glenn stands with his slacks rolled up, eyes closed in bliss as the water licks over his bare feet and legs. “Ah, it’s so warm… Isn’t it astonishing how the water in Fraldarius is always cold, but it’s so nice here? It’s the same sea but it has such a duality.”

Glenn reaches up and undoes his ponytail. His long, dark hair comes tumbling down his back, soft waves and little braids brushing his shoulder blades. Miklan remembers when his hair was that long, subconsciously touching the tips of his bright orange hair. Rolling up his pants, Miklan follows Glenn out into the wading surf, looking over his still blissful face.   
  
“Alright, you,” Miklan starts. “I know for a fact you guys didn’t come here on a pleasure cruise. Something’s going on.” 

Glenn sighs and opens his eyes, looking past him and out towards the never ending expanse of the sea, towards where the water and the sky touches. Shaking his head, as if to get himself out of a dream, Glenn reaches into his slack’s pocket and takes out a small envelope, slightly wadded up from so much moving around.  
  
“First things first,” Glenn says, his voice soft and gentle. “My wedding invitation from me to you.”

His wedding… That’s right. Glenn’s little bride was almost thirteen now. Her father had wanted them wed as soon as she was fourteen, so the wedding date was coming closer and closer. Miklan takes the invitation with a hand, and undoes the envelope, looking the pretty floral scripted invitation over. _ On behalf of their fathers, Honorable Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius and Honorable Lord Franklin Galatea, Glenn Fraldarius and Ingrid Galatea request the pleasure of your company at their wedding, on the 12th Day of the Blue Sea Moon, Imperial Year 1177… _

Miklan looks up from the invitation with a deep frown. “You better not have come all this way, nervous as an upturned beehive, to ask me to be your best man. I swear it Glenn, I will sock you in the face.” 

Glenn pffts and starts to laugh, clutching at his belly and crouching into the surf. His laughter sounds like it’s choked with the beginnings of a sob. “That might have been part of it!”  
  
“I’m going to fucking _ punch _you, Glenn--”

“No, no, wait, there’s more!” Glenn holds up a hand for mercy, trying to pull himself back together. “I promise it’s a lot more serious than that, I swear. Don’t hit me just yet!” 

Glenn wipes at his teary eyes, clearing his throat for good measure. He doesn’t bother with standing back up, opting instead to sit right down on the muddy beach, his lap swamped with sea water. Miklan attempts to protest, but Glenn just looks up at him and it just-- it shuts him right up.  
  
“There’s another reason why we came,” Glenn admits, a hand reaching into the sand and pulling out a shell. “You’re right, this definitely isn’t quite a pleasure cruise. Dad’s up to his ears in diplomatic business and he needed the break. And I…”

“You _ what _?” Miklan asks.

“As soon as this trip’s over, I’ll be going back to Fhirdiad to start planning for a possible deployment in Duscur.”

The words swim in Miklan’s head, not making sense. Duscur? The same Duscur that he and the Merchant had stayed in for over a year? “Wait, why?? What’s going on in Duscur?”

Glenn chuckles, no mirth behind the sound. “There’s been rumblings of unrest at the border of Sacred Gwenhwyer. His Majesty King Lambert wants to ease tensions by striking an alliance with the people of Duscur. He feels that if Duscur and Faerghus were aligned, we would make for a formidable army. He’s not wrong, and I’m sure you know that.”

Miklan knows. The people of Duscur were strong and hearty, able to do anything they put their minds to. They’d make fine allies. “Okay, that’s good. Why are you acting like it’s the end of the world??”  
  
“Because nobody else wants the alliance, especially House Kleiman.” Glenn throws the shell out to the foaming waters, never to be seen again. “We don’t know a lot about Duscur because they keep to themselves so much. People are afraid they’ll turn out to be enemies, especially with the unrest at the mountains.”   
  
“That’s ridiculous,” Miklan points out, quite incensed at the thought of them thinking that the sweet Molinaros would be enemies against Faerghus. “They’re good people!”   
  
Glenn sighs roughly. “We know that, but nobody wants to be stabbed in the back. I just have a feeling that things aren’t going to end well if we go. Dad’s been trying to talk His Majesty out of it, but he won’t have any of it. Cornelia’s been whispering in his ear about how this is a great idea, how it would show the people of Duscur that Faerghus truly wants to be her ally--”

“But for the whole court to go?” Miklan’s trying to piece together the logistics of moving so many people. “That’s insanity.” 

Glenn doesn’t reply, drawing his knees up even higher. “Like I said, I don’t really know what’s happening. This is all tentative and will depend on what happens. But after all this, I’ll be shipped home to go marry Ingrid. From there, she’ll move in with us and we’ll be expected to have a kid within a year or two.”

“She’s not gonna be much older than fourteen, Glenn--”  
  
“I know that!” The words explode out of Glenn’s mouth, his palm slapping the surface of the saltwater. Miklan takes a step back, not expecting him to get so loud. “She’s just gonna be a little kid and we’re gonna be expected to produce children with Crests for Daphnel and Fraldarius! She should be riding her pegasus and playing with her friends, not-- not being told she has to have babies so young and being told she’s the only thing keeping her father out of debt.” 

Miklan’s brow furrows, shoving his hands and the invitation in his pockets. “You don’t want to get married, do you.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times I don’t.” Glenn looks small, drawn up in the water. “I like Ingrid, and from what I hear, the poor girl’s smitten with me, but I don’t want to do that to her.”  
  
“Felix has a major Crest, doesn’t he? He can just continue the Fraldarius line on his own time instead of everybody expecting _ you _to do it.”

Glenn shakes his head. “I’d never want that for him, Miklan, not ever. He’s already upset enough that I’m getting married and probably leaving for Duscur, I don’t want him to think about marriage so young.”

Glenn sighs, a longing buried in his blue eyes. “Sometimes, Miklan, I just-- I wish… there’s days were I wish that I was like you.”

Something odd crawls up Miklan’s spine, an odd awakening of a dark feeling. “Trust me, Glenn, no you don’t.”

“I don’t mean this insensitively,” Glenn blusters, sensing Miklan’s mood. He pulls himself to his feet, soaked to the skin. “I just-- I wish that I could have been like you. Wandering the country, seeing all the amazing things that you have, meeting all these wonderful people. Living your life just for _ you _and not-- not for someone else.”

Glenn laughs, the sound empty once more, rubbing his arms with his hands. “If I wasn’t such a coward, I’d run away and do just that. Leave behind everything; my whole family, all my obligations, and just-- be a sword for hire. Or a merchant, like you. I want to, Miklan, I want to so _ badly _…!”

“Then stop being a coward and do it.” Miklan replies, looking at him sharply. Glenn looks up from the surf, blue eyes wide. “If you’re gonna talk big, you have to go through with it. What’s stopping you??”

“Felix.” Glenn looks back down. “I can’t just foist all of that onto him. And me running away from marriage would destroy Ingrid’s household financially. They’re a foot in the poorhouse, and I can’t bear to think of being the root of their suffering.”

“Felix is already the house heir, and Ingrid’s young enough that they can find her another suitor. Shit, maybe they’ll smash her and Sylvain together. Problem solved!”

“It’s not so simple for me!” Glenn starts to pace in the surf, kicking through the lapping waves. Rodrigue and the Merchant still talk quietly amongst themselves on the porch, not even hearing what they’re saying. “I can’t hurt my family like that! Dad has spent my entire life planning all this, to run would be to destroy everything he’s worked for—”

“So you’d rather be smashed under their expectations?” Miklan retorts, following him. “Is that it?” 

Glenn makes a desperate noise, coming to a stop. “Miklan, please,” He sounds so pathetic, hugging his arms close to him. “Please don’t tempt me with those thoughts. Please. I can’t abandon Felix with all my responsibilities.”

Miklan opens his mouth to protest, but the glimmer of tears in Glenn’s eyes stops him from doing it. Glenn had been the one, all those years ago, to convince him to change his fate. Him running home to Gautier Manor had been all his idea, urging him to take control of his life. But here Glenn was, unable to follow his own advice, trapped under the weight of his own obligations. Unable to breathe or move.

Now Miklan understands. At least his parents stopped giving a shit about what he did when he failed to manifest a crest. Glenn did not have that luxury. 

“C’mere,” Miklan grumbles, wrapping an arm around Glenn’s shoulder. Glenn makes a choked noise, wiping at his eyes again as Miklan pats him. “Stop your crying. You’re at least here now.”

“I’ll cry if I very well want to,” Glenn retorts, fighting back a sniff. A few tears leak down his face, the backs of his hands quickly wiping at them. “Goddess, what a mess. I’m a pathetic sight, aren’t I?”

“Kinda.” Miklan admits. “But do you feel better now that you’ve gotten it out?”

Glenn pauses, considering it. “A little.”

“You still have time, a whole two years. And if you _ really _get cold feet before then, come sneak over to Derdriu or wherever me and the Merchant end up. I’m sure she’d put you to work.”

Glenn laughs at the thought, finishing wiping his eyes. He looks up at Miklan with some odd kind of longing, something strange reflecting in his eyes. Miklan isn’t sure what it is. “I’m sure she would. I’m not sure Dad would ever forgive her if she stole me away, though.”

“She already just about stole me, what’s one more nobleman?”

Glenn chuckles again, taking a step away to look back up to the porch. Rodrigue’s bent over, deep in thought, his lips worrying the spout of his favorite pipe. Felix has moved to sit next to the Merchant’s chair, staring up at the sky. They still haven’t noticed their conversation, too deep in theirs. Miklan half wonders if they’re talking about the unrest Lambert’s new policies have brought about. 

“There’s another thing I want to tell you.” Glenn’s talking again, shivering from the chill of the air against his wet clothes and skin. “I know you might not care, but I feel obligated to tell you. We’ve been hosting His Highness at our home a lot with all the political turmoil going on in Fhirdiad. Sylvain’s been visiting a lot more often too.”

Miklan was interested in the first half, but frowns in the latter half. “Your observation is correct, I absolutely do not care.”

“Let me finish. I… I’ve noticed something. Your parents have been pushing a lot of unreasonable expectations on Sylvain ever since you left. Now they’re comparing him to Felix in every way possible.”

“To _ Felix _?” Miklan looks up at the grumpy teen, who’s still sitting against the Merchant’s chair, bored out of his skull. “What the fuck for?”

“Felix is a lot more disciplined and a lot more heavy handed with training while Sylvain seems more content to chase skirts and ride his horse. They’re actually now whining that he only has a minor Crest while Felix has a major.”

Miklan throws his hands up into the air in exasperation.What on earth was going through their heads? Was nothing good enough for them? “Goddess! First I’m worthless for not having a Crest, and now they’re complaining that their cash cow only has a _ minor _ Crest?! I mean, he’s getting what he deserves being the _ noble Gautier heir _ and all, but my parents are just— _ insufferable _with this Crest business!”

Glenn purses his lips, mulling over a thought. “Sylvain… I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so weird. As of late, he’s been sneaking out a lot. Getting into a lot of trouble. He just— he doesn’t care at all. It’s like he _ wants _to be punished. The harder they push, especially now they want him to defend the Sreng border, the more he pulls back. I… I’m worried about him. They want him to be something that’s way too big for him to handle.”

Miklan snorts. “They’ll learn real fast that it won’t work when Sylvain goes and gets skewered at the Sreng border, or when he decides to run off for good.”

Glenn sighs, reaching behind him and pulling his tumbling, wind tossed hair back into its ponytail. “At least he has Felix. Felix pushes back hard against them whenever they talk nonsense and really seems to like him. He and Sylvain can at least vent their worries off of each other…”

Glenn raises his eyebrows at Miklan, as if trying to emphasize a point. Miklan doesn’t get it, so he just shrugs. “Whatever, man. Sylvain can deal with his birthright on his own. It’s what he wanted, so he can find a way to deal with it.”

They lapse into silence for a moment. Miklan’s half tempted to ask if they should head back up the stairs, but Glenn speaks one last time. “...This is just me speaking out loud, Miklan. Nothing more and nothing less. I…”

Glenn falters, the words poised on his lips. He tries to start again a few more times, but, unable to get the words out, he just sighs and shakes his head. “Nevermind. Let’s not think on it too much and weigh down what time we have together with sadness, eh?”

Miklan nods, unsure of just what Glenn was trying to get at. What was he going to say-- and how long were they going to stay? Glenn had a month’s break, but if they only arrived today, so how long would they all be in the area? “Uh, yeah, sure. But what--?”  
  
“Later. After all the unrest in Faerghus has calmed, I’ll come back and tell you then. Just-- not right now. Not while I think about what I’m going to do in the future.”   
  
Glenn’s eyes hide a darkness inside of them, making Miklan’s stomach churn. But he doesn’t want to upset Glenn any more than he already is, so he acquiesces, and lets the thought die. Glenn pulls himself together, pats his face with his slightly pruny hands, and then takes Miklan by the sleeve. “C’mon, let’s go back and cheer our folks up. Maybe Felix will stop pouting if we pay attention to him.”

“I think he’s just _ hormonal, _Glenn.”

“He’s of that age. All the more reason to bother him until he stops being so cranky!”

They see that Felix has actually fallen asleep, cheek resting against the Merchant’s chair when they climb up the sandy stairs. Glenn goes to poke him awake with a sandy foot, but a quick look from Rodrigue stops him in his tracks. Rodrigue looks up at Miklan and manages to smile, the gesture worn from travel, and what must be the strain of dealing with all the political bullshit in Fhirdiad. “My apologies, Miklan; I didn't mean to ignore you for so long. Has Lady Witch been treating you well?”

“Eh, better than I deserve most days.” Miklan leans back, crossing his arms behind his head. “Work’s been good, though, even if it’s lead us out of Enbarr. The Alliance isn’t so bad.”  
  
Rodrigue nods, his smile softening into something more genuine. “Lady Witch was telling me about your run in with your would-be thieves and how you helped them. It’s a very impressive testament of how much you’ve grown.”   
  
“Aw, shucks, Dad, you’re making him blush.” Glenn playfully digs an elbow into Miklan’s ribcage, making the red-haired man wheeze. “Speaking of, you owe me a good sparring. When was the last time we actually sparred?” 

“Ages ago.” Miklan grumbles. 

Glenn beams, all his earlier vulnerabilities swept back up behind his smug, grinning mask. “Then we ought to change that before we head back to Fraldarius! We have two weeks to practice!”

Two weeks here... ? Then they really must be taking advantage of Glenn’s break. Awful long time to be away from Fhirdiad…

Glenn finally pokes Felix awake, laughing at the disgruntled reaction he gets. He’s acting like he wasn’t just wailing his insecurities into the wind, as if frightened tears weren’t running down his face. Miklan realizes that Glenn must be very good at pretending that everything was right with the world. They all had their burdens to bear, he supposed… and the fate of the Galateas and keeping his little brother safe was the personal hell he had chosen.

“Fine, fine,” Miklan gives in with a sigh. “Maybe once everything’s settled in…” 

Glenn smiles up at him, blue eyes glittering with fondness. Miklan’s still wondering what on earth Glenn was going to tell him down there in the surf. 

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1175 _ _   
_ _ Red Wolf Moon, Day 19 _

_ ‘Miklan, _

_ Thanks for writing to me to me again; I swear that your letters are the only thing keeping me going amidst wedding planning and all the talks in Fhirdiad. I can’t write much, since we’re about to go train down in Rowe, but I’ll do my best to catch you up. _

_ The talks between Faerghus and Duscur continue. Their tribal leaders are going to be gathering in two months to see if they want to continue with striking a formal alliance. Right now, things are good between the countries, but you wouldn’t be able to tell it by the climate here in Fhirdiad. Everybody’s really tense. _

_ These things take time. As of right now, deployment’s been pushed off, but if these talks are successful, I’ll be going with the royals down to Duscur as part of their escort. Again, all pretty unlikely, but I’ll be keeping you posted. _

_ It’s late and the post goes out in an hour. I’ll wrap up now and write again when I have a clearer idea as to what’s happening. Take care of yourself. _

_ P.S. Thanks for agreeing to be my best man, for real this time. It means more than I can ever say. _

_ All the best, _

_ Glenn Fraldarius’ _


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was so hard waiting until Friday to post, but the new schedule gives me a lot of time to get material ready! Thank y'all for being so patient and sweet. <3 
> 
> let the pain begin!
> 
> ALSO, you can now see a canonical bust of the Merchant on my Twitter! https://twitter.com/dedizenoflight/status/1199950940364623873
> 
> Thank you Speedy! @spedira on reddit <3

_ But you took your toll on me, so I gave myself over willingly, oh, you got a hold on me, I don’t know how I don’t just stand outside and scream…. _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1176 _ _  
_ _ Verdant Rain Moon, Day 5 _

_ Derdriu, Leicester Alliance _

_ ‘Garland Moon, Day 28 _

_ Miklan, _

_ I sent this as fast as I could because I can scarcely believe it. Duscur and Faerghus are going to be allies! The formal process is just about done, all that’s left is for us to go to Duscur and meet with the tribal leaders. Everybody is scrambling to make ready for the trip-- we think it’ll be right after St. Cethleann Day. We’ll arrive in Duscur right before the end of the month. _

_ Finally! After a year of having everybody panic, this will all be coming to an end! Real trade routes will get started, not just the little merchant trades that you and Lady Witch did back in the day. Once everything’s on paper, the stirring in Fhirdiad will hopefully come to an end. It’ll be good to have Duscur on our side, instead of worrying if they’ll turn on us. _

_ What was the name of the family you stayed with? The Molinaros? One of our stops is the village of Colopio since it’s so close to their seaside capital, so I’m hoping I have that right. I want to visit them and let them know you’re doing okay. What a shock that will be for them, that I know you, and for them to see the King of Faerghus! _

_ Before I forget-- happy late twenty-third birthday! No gift this year, sorry. Will try and send another letter before we go to Duscur. If I can’t, I’ll see you when we return, before all the last minute nitty gritty details of the wedding get hammered out. We’ll have a little party for you, just as we did last year before we left! _

_ Must keep this short before I ramble and raise the postage.Take care of yourself, okay? _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Warmest regards, _ _  
_   
Glenn Fraldarius’

Miklan sighs and folds Glenn’s letter up, tucking it back into the little chest he kept all of their correspondences in. Glenn and the royal family should be in Duscur by now, meeting with all the tribal leaders to hash out all the important bits of politics and whatever treaties must be being thrown around right now. They’d heard from news fliers a few weeks back about the official news-- ‘King of Faerghus to speak with leaders in Duscur’-- but since then, it’s been radio silence.

These things took time, he supposed, as Glenn liked to repeat time and time again in his letters. Now all that was left to do was to wait for anything new to be delivered. And in the year that they had been in Derdriu, he and the Merchant had been quite busy.

The Leicester Roundtable here in Derdriu was in constant need of parchment, quills, ink, and enough food and drink to keep all the different lords in the Roundtable happy. The Merchant had been more than happy to start supplying them with precious ink and crystal inkwells, and was routinely making deliveries once a week. When she was busy at their little shop, Miklan was the one to do it, so sometimes, when nobody was looking, he’d sit and listen in on official business being conducted in their meeting halls.

It was all politics for things he didn’t understand, new laws and policies in a land that felt as foreign as Duscur on some days. The country of Almyra always seemed to be on their minds, seeing as how they were just a mountainside over, and they were apparently very strong and _ very _testy. King Ramon, the current ruler of Almyra, has his name tossed around a lot these days-- so does Ionius and Lambert. Miklan hadn’t been caught yet, but he has a good feeling that the punishment would be dire, so he tries to keep his eavesdropping on the downlow. 

Between the shop and all the cross-city deliveries they have to make, Miklan notes that although Derdriu was busy, it seemed that he and the Merchant weren’t working anywhere near as hard as they did in Enbarr. He has a lot of leisure time to train and resume his old hobby of decorating blades, while the Merchant picks up training again herself. They compete against each other a lot, crossing blades and practicing hand to hand combat. Miklan’s never really given it much thought, but the Merchant is actually very, _ very _strong.

Time seemed to slow down in Derdriu, the days blending together in a sea-scented haze. Without even realizing it, another year has passed, making it almost six and a half years since Miklan had last stepped foot in Gautier territory. The pine forests and the frost covered mountains are mere drops of color in his memory, places almost forgotten, his old home an afterthought. And now that a year has passed, the Merchant has told him more and more stories about her old home. Speaking of which...

Pushing himself up from his desk, Miklan grabs the lit candlestick nearby and uses it to light his way towards the Merchant’s room, knocking on her slightly cracked door. “Can I come in?” He calls.

“Of course,” The Merchant’s slightly muffled voice says through the wood of the door. “Come on in.”  
  
Miklan pushes the door open and closes it behind him, taking in the Merchant’s dim room. She’s seated at her desk in her night chemise, wrapped up in the vermillion-yellow scaled cloak he’d seen sometimes in her chest. Her white hair is drawn up into a loose ponytail, spilling over her shoulders and onto the surface of her desk, desperately in need of a shortening. She’s looking over something, old letters he’s presuming, as he stops by her side and looks over her messy desk top.

“What’s all that?” Miklan asks.

“Ah, old letters from friends I haven’t seen in years.” The Merchant muses, gathering the slips of paper and stacking them up into a thick sheaf. “Probably all dead by now.”  
  
“Geez. Morbid.”

“The unfortunate truth is that I’ve outlived almost every friend I’ve had.” She sighs, leaning her cheek against a hand. “War and such does that. It’s no surprise to me.”

Miklan places his lit candle on a nearby shelf and takes a seat on the edge of her desk, scattering a small glass full of quills and fountain pens. “You say that but you still always get choked up about it.”

“Hush,” The Merchant grumbles, picking up her fallen pens. “Just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean I’m devoid of emotion.” 

This much is true. Miklan knows that while the Merchant usually wore her blank face in public, behind closed doors, he’d seen her sniffling once or twice, especially in her sleep. Although she slept soundly throughout the night, she seemed eternally dogged by… unpleasant dreams. Miklan can relate; sometimes he still sees his father’s face in his dreams, _ you are a good-for-nothing Crestless wretch, _or things more nonsensical like the Merchant packing up and leaving him alone in Derdriu, Enbarr, places he couldn’t even begin to decipher…

“So what’s tonight’s story?” Miklan changes the subject, leaning back against the wall.

“Haven’t decided yet.” The Merchant smoothly replies, folding her letters back up and tucking them into a soft silk bag. She opens a drawer and slides them back inside, surrounded by a few other bags just like it. “What would you like to hear?”  
  
“I dunno, something _ exciting. _ Something from your youth, when you were my age.”  
  
“Goddess, that was a long time ago.” The Merchant runs her hands down her still youthful face, still devoid of wrinkles save for the stress lines near her forehead. “Let’s see, let’s see… And let’s not sit on my work desk, I have a perfectly good chair by my bed.” 

Miklan doesn’t need to be told twice, sliding off of the cherry wood and dragging another cup of pens down with him. The Merchant groans and gathers them up as he takes his place in the stuffed chair the Merchant had brought with them from Enbarr, leaning back into its cushions. He was twenty-three, a bit old for stories, but now that the Merchant willingly offered them, he wanted to know more about her life. She knew all of his backstory, after all, so over the past few years, he clung to any bits and pieces of her past-- even if sometimes he wasn’t sure what parts she exaggerated, and what parts were true.

The Merchant slides into her bed, still wrapped up in her scaled cloak. Her white brows are knit in thought, trying to think of a story to tell him. “Alright… when I was your age, I hadn’t come to Fodlan yet.”

“But you said you spent your youth in Enbarr,” Miklan decides to point out, a usual discrepancy in her stories. “How long was your youth??”

“Mnn, when you’re cursed to live forever, your youth can last a long time.”  
  
“Oh my Goddess, woman, _ please _be serious.” 

“Alright, alright-- when I was your age, the war in my country had just gotten started. This was right after my family had passed away, and right before the inevitable collapse of the capital.”

Miklan makes a face. “Man, you aren’t going for _ any _happy points in your life.”

“They’re far and few inbetween,” The Merchant muses, running a hand up the gradient red-to-yellow scales of her cloak. “It was the first time I’d ever been alone. I was coddled somewhat by my parents, and I’d never wanted for anything, so being alone was… hard. A horrible shock, even. I wasn’t prepared for the realities of life at all.”

The Merchant shifts a bit in her bed, drawing a pillow up to her chest and leaning against it. “When I came back to the capital, I realized my parents had died, and so had my siblings. I never even got bodies back-- just trinkets from my home. Razed, burned to the ground… hardly anything of our little village survived. I foolishly signed up for the next charge against the enemy army. I was young, I’d just been given the worst news of my life… I figured that if I died, at least I’d be with my family again.

But, when that day came, when they invaded… It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. They possessed such unholy power that within a few hours, the entire city had been burnt to the ground. Many turned tail and fled, but…”

“You didn’t?” Miklan guesses. 

“Indeed.” The Merchant sighs, leaning her head against her pillow. “I stayed behind to find the person behind all of it. By this time, there was no hope of us winning. The army was decimated, our Queen had been murdered in her crystal throne room… we had been conquered beyond the shadow of a doubt. But I was consumed-- consumed with anger. With hatred. And spurred on by that fury, I found the leader of the army.”

Now that has Miklan’s attention, grabbing him hook, line and sinker. He hooks an elbow over the back of the chair, focused on her words. The Merchant always had a way to mystify him with each and every memory she recalled. 

“She’d broken off from her guards to go survey the damage she’d done. For her to do that… she truly feared no man. She feared no one, and she swatted me away from her as easily as I would a fly. To her, I was nothing more than a little toy to play with until she lost interest in me. But unfortunately for me, her interest in the only one brave enough to take her head on was tenacious.”  
  
“So she didn’t just kill you, huh?”  
  
“It wasn’t out of any kindness, Miklan. It was to make me _ suffer. _”

Miklan shifts a bit in his chair. He can tell she’s not quite telling him the whole story, but this wasn’t the kind of story you demanded out of the person telling it. “What happened then?”

“She departed, cursing me to live my life and leaving me alone in that burning city.” The Merchant lifts her head back up, looking him squarely in the eyes. He shudders from the depths inside of them, an ancient anger and hate that was unlike anything he’d ever seen from her. “And I swore that one day, I’d go back to my country, find her, and _ kill her. _I’d return the suffering she inflicted upon me a hundred fold, even if took me a thousand years. Even if the world burned down around me.”

Miklan isn’t sure what to say. He’s actually somewhat intimidated by the look in her eyes. “...Do you still feel that way?”

That dark look leaves the Merchant’s eyes. She sighs once more, shaking her head, looking down at her bedspread. “I did, for a very long time. But not so much anymore. I will go back one day and do as I promised, but… not now. Not while I have things to do and people to take care of.”

Something’s been bothering Miklan, and it’s a detail that’s been bothering him for almost seven years now. The fact that the Merchant’s outward appearance _never_ changed wasn’t normal, _ natural, _and he has a sinking feeling it’s related to that story. “Hey, wait-- are--”

Miklan doesn’t get a chance to finish. There’s a horrible clamoring on their rooftop, the flapping of wings and claws tearing up their roof shingles. The Merchant’s out of bed like a shot, her hands lighting up with magic, and Miklan grabs a lance off of the weapon rack bolted to her far wall. Outside, there’s the sound of the Roundtable Alliance bell ringing, beckoning for its members to come meet there, the ringing toiling for far longer than usual.

“What’s going on?” Miklan asks the Merchant, knowing that she has no answer. She shakes her head and just motions for him to follow her, the two of them rushing down the stairs. The Merchant heads towards the back door, listening for the sound of wingbeats-- and there it is again, the strong flap of a wyvern’s wings, the sound fluttering down to the beach below. The Merchant unlocks the door and throws it open, her hands still lit up with magic, ready to strike at whatever might be attacking their home.

The bells keep ringing, over and over again. Something isn’t right for sure, Miklan realizes. Down in the moonlit surf, three wyverns flap their wings and tuck them against their bodies, saddled but without riders. Only one wyvern, white as snow, has a rider, a man clad in blue and black with the crest of Fraldarius embroidered on his front, the rider scrambling off of the wyvern’s back and splashing down into the ocean’s waves.

“Hold!” The man calls up to them, spotting them on their porch. “Are you Lady Aletheia and Miklan Anschutz?!”

Lady Aletheia, the Merchant’s real name. She comes to a still, her hands still lit up with fire. “What is it to you?”  
  
“I’ve come straight from Faerghus! I was sent by Duke Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius with an urgent message! Please, there’s no time to waste-- come down here!” 

The Merchant and Miklan look at each other. If Rodrigue was calling the Merchant by her real name, then nothing good could have happened. The Merchant extinguishes the fire on her hands and quickly rushes down the sandy stairs, Miklan close at her side. All across town, church bells are joining the cacophony of the Roundtable’s calls, wyverns shadowed in the moonlit sky. There’s-- there’s so many of them, all of them bearing the blue banners of Faerghus. Something is horribly wrong. 

The Merchant approaches the rider, who quickly steadies the woman out when she stumbles. Miklan grabs her by an elbow and gets her straightened out, her ponytail coming loose. “What’s going on?? What’s happened?” She asks the rider, her white hair haphazardly spilled across her eyes. 

“There’s--” The rider has to stop and take a few breaths, obviously out of breath himself from riding so far. If he’s from Faerghus, and the news is this dire, he must not have stopped at all. “H-His Majesty King Lambert is dead.The whole court is dead. His Highness Prince Dimitri is feared to be dead as well.”

The Merchant jerks back as if the rider had slapped her around the face. Miklan’s eyes widen, his hands quickly going to steady the woman out. King Lambert-- dead? Prince Dimitri, the same sweet boy who’d given them roses, dead? Dead…? How-- that couldn’t be right. Glenn was writing about how things were going so well in Duscur. How on earth could the court be dead?

The whole court. Glenn. Miklan’s stomach threatens to upheaval right then and there. “Wait-- the whole court? What-- what about Glenn Fraldarius, do you know? What happened??”

“Duscur turned on them.” The wyvern rider speaks, his voice tight with barely restrained emotion. Even now, he looks at the Merchant strangely, eyeing her with an odd glint in his eyes. “Their carriages were attacked, turned over, burnt without care or reason. And-- Glenn Fraldarius fell defending the king. Duke Rodrigue sent me as soon as he learned.”

The Merchant lets out a hideous sob, a wounded cry jerking itself from her throat. Her knees tremble and give out, the woman falling into the surf, and Miklan follows her. His whole body _ burns _with-- with something, his hands shaking and his throat impossibly dry. Glenn, dead? No. No, no, that-- that was impossible, Glenn couldn’t possibly be dead. Glenn was so much stronger than that, Glenn was untouchable, he always had been. 

Glenn was dead. The words ring in Miklan’s brain, over and over again. Glenn was dead. 

“You--” Miklan begins, the words coming out more as a croak than anything. “You have to be mistaken. Glenn-- Glenn was the strongest knight out of all of them. There’s no way he’s dead.”

“Duke Rodrigue got what was _ left _of him just yesterday morn. I think that’s confirmation enough.” 

The Merchant makes another horrible sob, her hands covering up her face, tears leaking through her fingers. Miklan has never heard such a horrible sound come from her before. The bells continue to echo across the city, rousing Derdriu from its slumber, and each and every ring shakes Miklan to the bone. In that moment, nothing felt real, nothing felt like reality, as if this were a retelling of one of the Merchant’s horrible memories. 

He barely hears the wyvern rider ask them to hurry and grab a few supplies and to come meet him back out here. He brought these wyverns to take them straight to Lord Rodrigue, please hurry… The Merchant pulls herself out of the surf and disappears back inside of the house, her white hair streaming behind her. Miklan finds that he’s rooted into place, unable to move, the ocean lapping at his calves without a single care. It didn’t know of the tragedy that had just not unfolded. It did not care about their pain. Their loss. Anything.

Glenn was dead. He’d never come back to Derdriu, he’d never get to see Enbarr, he’d never get to see Miklan or the Merchant ever again. They’d never have that party, he’d never get married, he...

The Merchant comes back with two bags, one for her and one for him, and numbly, he slides into the seat of one of the wyvern’s saddles. He’s never ridden a wyvern before, and as it takes off into the air, the sudden weightlessness threatens to turn his stomach inside out. The Merchant lays her head against her wyvern’s neck and now silently weeps, her back openly wracking with sobs as they ascend to the moonlit sky.

This-- this was all some giant misunderstanding. It had to be. The body that came home to Fraldarius wasn’t going to be Glenn’s. It just wasn’t.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1176 _ _  
_ _ Verdant Rain Moon, Day 7 _

_ Fraldarius Manor _

The whole house is silent, save for the shuffling of maids and servants moving furniture and florals around. Despite it being morning, the house is dark, only lit up with the smallest of candles, the entire manor groaning and sighing with grief. It’s raining, a fitting day for a funeral. 

The Merchant and Miklan had only gotten in just a few hours before, but there’s no sleep to be found in this dark house. Rodrigue had come to greet them in the darkness of dawn, his face tight and the glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes, but as soon as they were inside, the poor man had broken down into silent sobbing, burying his head into the Merchant’s shoulder.

Miklan is still numb. He doesn’t remember the ride over, he barely remembers them touching down in front of Fraldarius Manor. The last time he had been here was just after the Merchant had bought him, the first time he’d seen Glenn in ages. The last time he was here, Glenn had been running around, happy to see him, brandishing his brand new royal knights’ cloak to anybody who’d look. 

Glenn was here, in the house with them still-- but locked up inside of an oaken casket, draped in the Faerghus flag, his Royal Knight’s portrait sitting next to the coffin on an easel. Apparently he was too mangled to have an open casket funeral so they had to get creative.

He’d only glanced into the room where his coffin was resting, one of the foyers in the back of the house that had windows overlooking the pine forest and the snow-capped mountains beyond the valley. He couldn’t bear to look in there any longer than he had, and he-- he saw Felix in that room too, laying on the ground next to the casket, hiding in a pile of pillows and blankets haphazardly placed next to its pedestal. He couldn’t bear to interrupt the boy, and… and if he did, if he walked in there, he’d have to acknowledge that Glenn was in there too. Silent. Unmoving.

He and the Merchant have been sitting very quietly in a guest room for the past few hours, sharing the same bed. Soon, guests from all over Faerghus would be coming, the Fraldarius’ closest friends. Lambert was going to be laid to rest in a few days in Fhirdiad, once the appropriate channels had been gone through, all the papers signed… but for now, things remained chaotic on the outside world while all stayed still inside of Fraldarius Manor.

There’s a soft knock on the door. It’s Rodrigue, poking his head inside, his face red from hours of silently crying. “You two,” He says, his voice hoarse. “Come with me. I can now safely show you Faerghus’s saving grace.”  
  
Moving as slow as unoiled machine cogs, Miklan gets himself to his feet and offers an arm out for the Merchant to take. She pulls herself up with it, and together, they walk through the dark, empty halls, following Rodrigue’s back all the way to Glenn’s old room, guarded by two Fraldarius knights. An odd lump rises up in Miklan’s throat; why here? What was in here that was so important?

Rodrigue knocks softly, his voice softening as well. “No need to fear. It’s just me, Rodrigue.”

Without waiting for an answer, Rodrigue puts his hand on the doorknob, turning it and creaking the door open. Despite the severe stares the knights give the Merchant, she and Miklan slowly follow Rodrigue into the darkened room, lit up only by a few candlesticks. There’s someone in Glenn’s old bed, looking so tiny and frail, a dark shape keeping a hunched vigil nearby.

The Merchant cries out, losing her composure and rushing forward. “Dedue!” 

Miklan thinks, for one moment, that grief’s made the Merchant crack and this is some kind of horrible joke. But then that shape moves; dark skin marred with bloody bandages, white hair, blue eyes that contain the world’s darkness. He knows that face, even if he’s fourteen now and long outgrown his toothy smiles. Miklan would know Dedue anywhere.

Dedue pushes himself from the chair with a measured movement, as if moving his limbs hurt. The Merchant buries her head into his chest and he embraces her, his head dropping on top of hers. “Miss Merchant,” He quails, his voice halting. 

The Merchant pulls back, touching Dedue’s face with her open palms, feeling him as if making sure he were real and not an illusion. “My gods, Dedue, you’re alive-- how, how on earth--”

Dedue takes her hands, lowering them from his face. His voice sounds so different, worn down and defeated. “I am the only one left. The knights of Faerghus came to Colopio with swords raised and torches ready.”

The Merchant covers her mouth with a hand, the glimmer of tears leaking out from under her lashes. “Your family? D-Dario, Estel, your granny and your siblings--”  
  
“Dead.” Dedue says, the word falling out of his mouth like a heavy weight. The Merchant’s chest heaves, and a broken noise leaves her. Miklan’s chest hurts, his hand fumbling around for the back of a chair to sit down, burying his head in his hands. Dedue’s whole family… the Molinaros were all murdered. Didn’t Glenn say they were going to stop in Colopio? Didn’t he say he wanted to meet the Molinaros and let them know they were okay?

Dedue turns his blue eyed gaze towards the lump in Glenn’s old bed, shrouded by blankets and bandages. “He was the one who saved me from his knights. I... owe my whole life to him.”

The Merchant gasps, realizing that the shape in the bed truly was none other than His Highness Prince Dimitri, the same sweet boy who so shyly handed them blue roses at his home, the same boy who gazed wonderingly towards her weaponry. The prince lays asleep, eyes closed and torso cloaked in bloody bandages, blonde hair drawn back out of his face. The Merchant gently touches his cheek with the back of her hand, feeling the fever reflect off of his skin.

“How did he survive?” She whispers up to Rodrigue, who has come to the bedside as well.

Rodrigue shakes his head, his eyes dark. “We don’t know. When they found him, it was in a blacksmith shop in Colopio, surrounded by corpses and shielding Dedue from the other knights. He was-- He was apparently babbling nonsense, about the people that killed his father. From what I could decipher, he-- he doesn’t think it was people from Duscur.”

“Then why is no one investigating?” The Merchant’s voice is shrill, broken. “Why are Faerghus’s own ‘honorable’ knights slaughtering the innocent people of Duscur?! They wouldn’t have done this, Rodrigue, I know them, I know that Duscur--”

Rodrigue motions for her to quiet herself, looking back towards the door. “Aletheia, please. Tensions are-- very high right now. Please temper yourself. I believe Dimitri, but-- people need something to blame. And even you just being here is drawing unwelcome attention.”

The Merchant looks down at her dark skin and white hair, the same shade as Dedue’s, biting her lip. Something cold clenches Miklan’s heart, looking over at Rodrigue. “W-What, they think that just because she _ looks _like Dedue, she’s from Duscur too and therefore complicit? They’re upset that she’s here, when she’s your family friend? Rodrigue, that’s--” 

“Please,” Rodrigue tries again, looking completely worn out. “I’m doing all I can to keep people from abusing Dedue here. Please try to keep a low profile. I… I can’t promise any protection from the words people might use.”

The Merchant draws in a breath, trying to steady herself. No respite from the man that was supposed to help her. “Whatever. That’s fine. I can care for myself. Just make sure that they don’t hurt Dedue. Please. He’s been through enough and he saved His Highness. That’s got to stand for something, doesn’t it?”

She looks down at Dedue, resting her hands against his cheeks once more. Despite himself, he leans into the familiar gesture. “Dedue, whatever… whatever you need, let me or Rodrigue know. We’ll make sure you get it.”

Dedue looks away from her, back down towards Dimitri’s sleeping form. “...What I need is for Dimitri to recover. That’s all I need.”

The Merchant steps back, wiping the tears from her eyes. She leaves Dedue at his vigil by Dimitri’s side, coming back around to Miklan’s side, motioning for them to leave the three of them be. “Don’t leave my side,” She strains out to him. “Please.”

Miklan reaches up and takes her hand, wet from tears. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He croaks out, voice cracking. “Anybody that’s gonna hurt you has to go through me.”

The hours crawl by like years. The Merchant disappears into the bathroom to wash herself and get ready for the sunset funeral, Miklan slowly pulling himself into a new set of clothes. All black, the appropriate color for mourning, most of the pieces lent to him by Rodrigue when it became apparent the Merchant was too frazzled to pack enough black. 

The Merchant emerges from the bathroom, cloaked in obsidian and her hair pinned back in a long veil. Black’s a fitting color for the Merchant, who hid herself behind false names, who has always outlived everybody around her, cursed to live on forever. 

“People are already coming.” Her voice is worn from all the crying she has done, the most Miklan has ever seen her cry. “Can you hear them downstairs?”

Miklan listens, already hearing the murmurs underneath the floorboards. People were slowly starting to gather to put Glenn into the ground forever, and as much as he wants to scream at them all to go away and leave them all alone, he just nods and pulls his hair back into a respectable looking braid. “Are you gonna be okay?”  
  
“I will be.” The Merchant says softly, pulling on a pair of black gloves that probably once belonged to Rodrigue’s late wife. Tokens from the dead. “I could care less what others say about me. What about you?”

“I’m fine.” Miklan replies, a little too fast. 

Miklan knows that he’s going to see his family. They were friends with the Fraldariuses, and if Glenn’s last few conversations with him told him anything, it was that Sylvain and Felix were best friends. They wouldn’t miss the funeral for anything. He-- He doesn’t want to see them or talk to them. But he has to be on his best behavior and be civil for Rodrigue and Felix’s sakes. The last thing he wanted to do was to mar Glenn’s memory by pitching a fit at his own funeral. 

Taking the Merchant’s arm like any noble-born gentleman, Miklan guides the Merchant downstairs to the main foyer, where people are already starting to gather, a dark, stormy cloud of black against the blue carpets. Rodrigue’s down there, blue hair standing out amongst a crowd of brown and blonde and orange, speaking softly to a portly blonde man with a large mustache. His hand’s resting on the shoulder of a thirteen year old girl, her golden hair drawn back into a thick braid and her chest hiccupping, her black shrouded face coated with tears.  
  
Ingrid Galatea, Miklan distantly realizes. Glenn’s little bride.

He and the Merchant stay out of the way and speak to no one. The moment someone spots the Merchant’s dark skin and her white hair past her veils, whatever condolence or platitude that was poised on their lips dies. They stare at her as if they wish she would combust on the spot, as if she personally wielded the blade that ended Lambert’s life. Miklan plays the dutiful guard, bringing her water whenever she needs it, glaring at those staring at them.  
  
“What’s _ she _ doing here?”  
  
“Is she from Duscur?”  
  
“Why is Rodrigue allowing _ her _into his home after what’s happened?” 

_ Because Rodrigue loves her much more than the rest of you vipers, _ Miklan wants to snarl. But he can’t. The Merchant keeps her back straight and doesn’t react to the vitriol whispered just loud enough for her to hear, but when Ingrid Galatea spots her and sends her a withering glare past her tears, the Merchant’s shoulders begin to tremble. Miklan leans into her side, just enough to quell the trembling. “Don’t even look at them,” He says lowly to her. “You stay by me.” 

Rodrigue parts from the crowd and goes to greet the last addition to the funeral party. Miklan knows that it’s his parents without even looking up at them, recognizing the sound of his father’s voice, the slightly nasally way his mother spoke. Sylvain slides past the adults and through the sea of black, aiming for a corner in the back of the room where Felix has gone and hidden himself. 

Sylvain looks a lot different than the last time Miklan saw him. He’s sixteen now, a bit taller and broader than he was back at the royal wedding, which feels like ages ago. That was the last time Miklan had seen both Lambert and Dimitri at the same time, and the last time both of them had been happy. Sylvain kneels by Felix’s crouching form, resting a hand on his shoulder, the blue haired teen seizing up for a moment before realizing who it is.

Miklan makes himself look away, taking the Merchant’s water glass and setting it down on a butler’s platter. His concern isn’t with them. His job today was to hold himself together, stay civil, and defend the Merchant from the barbs being thrown her way. It was almost as if these people had forgotten she was a respected member of the merchant class-- or did they care now that she fit the bill for the supposed King’s killers?

All it takes to still the room is for Rodrigue to clap his hands once, the doors deep inside of the manor beginning to open. The gathering in the foyer slowly starts to file towards the back of the manor, the stone and pine walls opening up to swallow the throngs of people whole, Miklan and the Merchant capping the crowd off at the back. Felix and Sylvain follow right behind them, Felix’s eyes downcast at the floor.

Miklan can feel Sylvain’s gaze at the back of his head, just like he could all those years ago. But right now, not even his brother’s stares bother him too badly, keeping his arm poised for the Merchant to hold onto. _ Keep it together _ , he tells himself, _ you have a job today. _

The foyer that Miklan had only peeked into before is now lit up with silver candelabras, the white beeswax candles weeping wax as if they too mourned the loss of the young man in the coffin. The darkness from the rain clouds outside presses in on the room around the perimeter of the candles, oppressive and tight. Silent as night, the procession fills in the rows of chairs hastily laid out by the maids, Miklan and the Merchant taking up the last empty row. It seems that nobody wants to share a row with them.

Nobody save for Sylvain and Felix, who slide in quietly behind them. Felix sits next to the Merchant, Sylvain on his left, his eyes still misty. Sylvain offers him a hand to hold, now no longer looking at the Merchant or her charge, and while at first, Felix pushes his hand away, as the presiding priest begins the ceremony, Miklan notices Felix reach out for his hand. 

“We’re here today,” The priest intones, sounding half asleep, groggy from the pouring rain outside. “To mourn the passing of Lord Glenn Fraldarius, cruelly taken away from us in the prime of his life…”

The ceremony and eulogies and all the prayers hoping that Glenn is laying in rest in the Goddess’s arms all blend together into a mess that Miklan cannot decipher. He and the Merchant lean into each other, arms still linked, watching as Rodrigue stands in front of his son’s casket and delivers a speech about how brave he was. How he gave his life for Prince Dimitri’s. How he lived a life of honor, and died a death of honor.

Felix stiffens, and storms to his feet. Sylvain grabs him, pulling him back down into his seat, holding the struggling teen down. Nobody seems to have noticed the outburst. “Fe,” He whispers, just loud enough for Miklan to catch. “Don’t--” 

“He was murdered!” Felix hisses to him, a fresh wave of tears spilling down his cheeks. His whole body quivers, tight as a bowstring, ready to be released. “Glenn was murdered holding up those stupid knightly ideals! It wasn’t honorable at all, he--”

Sylvain has to pull him back down into his seat again, whispering for him to calm down, please calm down-- Miklan doesn’t listen in much longer, his stomach hurting. If he’d eaten anything, he’s sure it’d be all over the carpeted floors at this point. What had Glenn died for? Glenn was always so proud of being a knight. Glenn loved what he was doing, holding up Faerghus’s ideals of chivalry and goodness. 

What did all that pride and chivalry get him, when he was on the other side of a knife? A coffin.

_ I wish that I could have been like you. Wandering the country, seeing all the amazing things that you have, meeting all these wonderful people. Living your life just for you and not-- not for someone else. _

_ If I wasn’t such a coward, I’d run away and do just that. _

Miklan’s throat burns. He should have convinced Glenn to run away. He should have tried harder to tell him to run away, far across the sea, when Glenn was sobbing his terror into his shoulder. Maybe if he had, Glenn would still be here--

“May Glenn find shade and rest in the Goddess’s loving gaze.” The priest holds his hands above the flag-cloaked casket, shaking holy water over it. “May he find eternal happiness in Her arms. May he be given his heavenly reward for all the good he had done in life.”

What heavenly reward was any good when all of Glenn’s fears had come true? Now Felix was all alone, left to bear the burden of the Fraldarius dukedom and the Fraldarius Crestline. He’d left his entire family behind, left them all behind like _ this _…!

The front row stands, people slowly beginning to approach the coffin to pay their final respects. People kneel, kiss the hem of the flag, lay their hands on the casket and whisper their final goodbyes, last minute confessions that the dead could not hear. Ingrid wails and drapes herself over Glenn’s casket when it’s her turn, supported by her father, Franklin. She must be bodily pulled off of the casket and carried away when it becomes apparent she won’t leave on her own, caged in her father’s strong arms, her screams muffled into his jacket. 

Miklan realizes, all too soon, that it’s their turn to go. The four of them are the only ones left, save for Rodrigue, to whisper their dirges to Glenn’s unhearing form. Supporting the Merchant, Miklan stands and escorts her out of the row, but motions for Felix and Sylvain to go first. 

Sylvain furrows his eyes in questioning, and although Miklan knows the complicated feelings between them have not faded, both of them are bound by the rule to not cause a scene at a funeral. “You take Felix up first,” Miklan grunts at him, trying to keep quiet. “He’s family. We aren’t.”

Sylvain only gives him a nod, the best Miklan will likely get, and he helps Felix up and walks him up the rows of staring nobles, and up to his big brother’s coffin. Felix’s shoulders tremble, pressing his face against the lid of the coffin, his hands clenching at the Blaiddyd crested flag. He reaches up, pulling his hair out of its neat ponytail, laying the pale blue ribbon on top of the casket. It must have been Glenn’s; light blue always had been Glenn’s favorite color. 

Felix opens his mouth several times to say something, but no words come out. On the third try, an almost silent sob wrenches itself out of his throat, the boy burying his face back into the flag. Sylvain rests a hand on Felix’s shoulder, the other one respectfully resting on the coffin’s lip, his lips seemingly moving in a silent prayer of peace. 

Gently motioning for him to go back to his seat, Sylvain takes Felix back to the back row, and now it’s Miklan and the Merchant’s turn. Pulling his shoulders straight, he offers his arm out for the woman to take, and together, slowly, he walks her down the center aisle towards the coffin. He can feel the heat of the glares on them, the questioning from a few of them, whispers unbound in the small crowd. 

“Is that Miklan Gautier?”

“I think it is-- what’s he doing here? With _ her _?”

“He ran away, and _ now _ he comes to show his face?” 

He and the Merchant are now the same; outcast from their noble communities. Miklan’s guts churn uncomfortably, that familiar anger starting to pulse in his blood, the back of his head tight. He cannot afford to be angry here. Not in front of all these people, where blowing up and angrily defending themselves would only prove them right. If they are outcasts, unwanted, then so be it. He will take that burden on.

Releasing the Merchant’s hand, Miklan lets her go up first. Lifting her veil away from her face, the Merchant kisses the lid of the casket, like many had before her, whispering softly to the corpse inside. “You’re free now,” Her lips are veiled by her white hair, her voice so quiet Miklan’s breathing would drown it out. “You’re free now, Glenn. Find happiness, wherever you may be now.”

A crystal tear drips down from the Merchant’s nose, her red eyes clenching shut. “I’m so sorry that I failed you so badly. I couldn’t save you either, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” 

A lump rises in Miklan’s throat, doing his best to swallow it down. The Merchant had outlived her whole family, her fathers, her sisters, her brother. Now she was outliving this family too, one by one.

The Merchant kisses the coffin one more time, and lowers her veil again. She takes a step back, and suddenly, Miklan is alone up on the pedestal, alone with this coffin that held his best friend’s body inside. 

The trembling that overtakes him comes on suddenly. That’s right. Glenn had been his best friend-- his only friend in the whole world outside of the Merchant. Rodrigue didn’t count, Felix didn’t count, and his own biological family _ certainly _didn’t count-- Glenn was the only one whom he trusted with his secrets. All his fears, the things that kept him up at night. Glenn had been the only other person in the world that even cared that he was still alive, and now he was gone. Gone…!

Miklan takes a step forward, faltering in front of the man’s casket. He places a hand on top of the lid, as all the others had before him, leaning over the casket. He presses his ear to it, and he swears, he wants to hear Glenn’s heart underneath the thick wood. His breathing. Maybe he’ll crack the coffin right open and sit up, laughing and saying _ surprise, I sure got all you good, didn’t I _? That’d be just like him.

But there’s nothing but silence underneath the wood. A body, mangled beyond recognition, wrapped in a shroud and hidden away inside of this wretched box, that couldn’t respond to any of their lamentations. To their whispers, their pleads for him to come back.

“Glenn,” Miklan strains out, feeling his vision dangerously blur. “Glenn, you fool, get out of this box and say this is all a joke. Say that this is all just a joke…!!”

The Merchant rests a hand on his back, and Miklan violently shrugs it off. He clutches at the lid like some kind of fool, begging to a body that cannot hear him. “What were you going to tell me back then, Glenn?! You were supposed to tell me something when you came back from Duscur!! What was it, Glenn, what was it…?!”

A wretched noise leaves him, the beginnings of a sob. Miklan can already feel the burning of tears in his eyes, in his throat, the offensive tears dripping down his face. He pounds his fist on the lid of the coffin, startling everybody in the room for sure, sobbing into the flag draped over it. “You get out of this box right now, Glenn! You get out here and you tell me what you wanted to do! What you wanted to say! Please, Glenn, _ please _, don’t leave me behind like this…!!”

His knees give out, and the Merchant has to catch him in her arms, holding him close to her bosom. “Miklan,” She whispers, her voice cracking. “He’s gone, Miklan. He’s not coming back.”

Miklan knows it’s true. But he doesn’t _ want _it to be. A world without Glenn, a world without his best friend, a world without those twice-a-month letters…

Miklan sags into the Merchant’s arms, sobbing into her chest as if he were a baby, in front of the entire funeral and the Goddess herself. The Merchant gets him back to his feet and slowly leads him back to their seats, where he curls up more into her side, arms clutching at her as if she, too, would disappear and leave him all alone in this cruel world. Her arms, warm, secure, something grounding him down to reality, hold him to her chest as a mother would her child. 

He doesn’t have the energy or the strength to get up and follow the others outside into the pouring rain, where they go to lay Glenn to rest out in the rose garden. He’s probably going to be placed next to Eliza, his mother, and be forever shrouded in the white roses of Fraldarius. And as the rain continues to soak the earth, even though they cannot see it, they know that Glenn is slowly being lowered into the earth, and being covered by mud, shovelful by shovelful, until the casket is completely gone, returned to the earth.

A few of the candles splutter out, drowning in their own wax. And yet, Miklan does not move, holding onto the Merchant, face buried in her shoulder. It feels like there will be no end to his tears. 

Glenn was gone. And nothing would ever feel the same again.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted a day early because I'm super sick and tomorrow I have to make up my hours at work. I won't have time to post so you get it today! 
> 
> Twitter: @dedizenoflight  
Reddit: @spedira

_ No more dreaming of the dead, as if death itself was undone, no more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden… _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1176 _ _   
_ _ Verdant Rain Moon, Day 7 _

_ Fraldarius Manor _

Miklan wipes his mouth, grimacing. He pitied the poor bastard that was gonna have to clean these bathrooms, especially with the vomit spread all over the carpet-- no thanks to him. 

The Merchant waits outside the door, softly knocking when she notices that the retching has stopped. “You alright?”

“Will be,” He grunts, pulling on the flush chain on the chamber pot to try and flush away his shameful retching. He grabs a rag from the nearby cabinet and tries to make the help’s life a little easier. “Just… just need another moment.”

Glenn has been buried, a fresh mound of dirt in the back garden confirming his final resting place. White rose petals, from what he’s been told, have been scattered over the overturned mud, and perhaps one day, Glenn would become one of the many white rose bushes out in the garden. The rain has slowly come to a stop, but the skies are still dark and stormy, reflecting the mood inside of this fortress that was never meant to be a manor. Miklan’s not keen on going down there, and neither is the Merchant, but the Merchant wanted to be there for Rodrigue as much as she could. Even if that meant enduring the present company.

Miklan finishes mopping up what he can, kicking the towels into the dirty towel hamper. At least it wasn’t much… he takes a moment to go to the basin sink, rinsing his hands and face off and swishing the taste of bile out of his mouth. When he looks at himself in the hanging mirror, he looks like an absolute mess. Puffy undereyes, splotches all over his face, his scar inflamed and red…

It was a funeral. People cried at funerals. No shame in that... Miklan pats his face dry with the frigid cold water and finally leaves the bathroom, finding the Merchant waiting with her back against the wall. “Alright, all done. Let’s get going.”

The Merchant pulls herself off of the wall, and side by side, they walk down the dimly lit hallways and slowly head down the main staircase leading back down to the foyers where the reception was being held. While everybody was out lamenting in the rain, the maids and servants had quickly changed the foyers over with tables, chairs, places for people to sit and quietly discuss the situation in Faerghus. 

Nobody knew that High Prince Dimitri lay upstairs, burning with fever in Glenn’s old bedroom, tossing and turning and crying out for his father. Dedue likely hadn’t left his side, and is probably tending to him as a diligent nursemaid, wiping the prince’s forehead down with a wet cloth and soothing his nightmares. Rodrigue had at least passed on the news that His Highness had been found alive, but… he kept his whereabouts silent to avoid the company from bombarding the little prince with questions, with plying sympathies that the poor prince likely didn’t want to hear. 

Miklan and the Merchant emerge out into the foyer, the Merchant’s hand instinctively tucking itself into Miklan’s arm. There’s more light now, at least, more candlesticks and candelabras and sconces lit up to cut through the gloom of the dark skies. The room’s humming with quiet conversation, ladies in black lace and men in their jet colored waistcoats, members of the noble class that Miklan didn’t recognize. When he and the Merchant come in, the room silences for half a second, enough for them to know that there’s now a million eyes upon them. 

Miklan’s eyes immediately search for Rodrigue, finding him tucked back near a wall, absently swirling a cup of wine. He walks the Merchant over there at once, perhaps in an attempt to defend her from any more of those stares, and also out of a sick need to show everybody that she was welcome and wanted here. “Rodrigue,” He murmurs, reaching out and shaking the hand Rodrigue offers, pulling him in boldly for a small hug. “I’m-- I’m really sorry. About Glenn.”

“Don’t be,” Rodrigue murmurs back just as softly, giving him a soft squeeze and pulling back. He reaches out for the Merchant and hugs her to his side next, kissing the top of her head. There’s a soft gasp from someone nearby, and Miklan gets a thrill of sick pleasure out of it. “Glenn… Glenn always knew of the risk. He passed away honorably, defending the next generation of Blaiddyds. It’s all we could have prayed for. And he’s with the Goddess now, free and out of pain...”

Miklan looks around while he and the Merchant begin to talk, their voices cast low. A few people are still eyeing them, but after he sends them a fierce glare, they avert their eyes. Good. Miklan steals a cup of wine from a passing maid, tipping the glass back and emptying it in a gulp. Perhaps it was a bad show of manners, but he needed something to just-- take that edge out of his brain. If he thought about Glenn too much, he was going to start crying again, and after that scene he caused earlier, he’s done with tears. 

“Miklan, my stars, is that you?”

Miklan’s skin crawls. He knows his mother’s voice anywhere. He wants to ignore her, Goddess, he _ wants _to, but he-- he can’t cause a scene. He can cry and wail in front of a few people and get a pass, but he cannot be excused for ignoring his mother. 

Moving slowly, Miklan turns and finds his mother standing behind him, her black mourning veil pulled back to show her face. She hasn’t aged too much in the past seven years, just a few wrinkles around her eyes and a little strip of grey in her fiery orange hair. Miklan hadn’t really taken stock of her at the royal wedding, so it’s actually a little _ jarring _to see her, to have her actually speak to him.

“Mother,” He says evenly, voice devoid of emotion. The word feels like poison in his mouth, the word not _ right _ in describing her. “You look well.”

“As do you,” Lady Alicia replies, the two of them expertly playing the noble game of polite talk. “Well, save for those hideous cuts on your face. Where did those come from?”  
  
“Bandit attacks. Unlucky strikes.”   
  
“Ah. Most unfortunate.”   
  
“Indeed.”

An awkward silence goes up between them, Lady Alicia sipping at her wine while Miklan wishes the wine maid would get her ass back here and get him another cup. He was going to need a lot more alcohol if he was going to be forced to talk to his family any more than this. Lady Alicia looks over his shoulder towards the Merchant, brows rising in recognition. “Ah, there-- Lady Witch, over here. It’s been ages.”

The Merchant looks up from Rodrigue, catching sight of Lady Alicia. Immediately, her face slips into its usual blank mask, taking a few steps over to join the little party. The Merchant offers Miklan her untouched cup of wine, and he takes advantage of it, swallowing down half of it in a few, slightly more refined sips. “Indeed it has. I haven’t seen you since the…”

The Merchant trails off, and Lady Alicia finishes up for her. “Yes, the wedding. Horrible tragedy, all of this. To lose the King and Queen, all the royal knights, little Glenn…”

Lady Alicia huffs a little, a hand going up to her face as if to swallow back some tears. Maybe she really was upset about all of this. The Gautiers and the Fraldariuses went back a long way, and the Gautiers were tasked by the Kingdom to guard the Sreng border. It was a task they always bore proudly out of love for the Kingdom… it wasn’t a stretch at all to say that the three families were close.

Getting herself under control, Lady Alicia sighs and takes another sip of her wine. “Nevertheless. Come, Miklan, Lady Witch, I’m sure Robert would love to hear about your adventures to take our minds off of all this. Sylvain too.”

Robert, his father, the Margrave Gautier. The room is kind of swaying, and Miklan’s not sure if it’s from the wine or from the sudden clench of nerves in his chest. He looks at the Merchant, red eyes meeting his brown ones, and they both know they’re trapped by the social convention that one did _ not _ruin a funeral, especially not for one for a nobleman. Goddamn noble rules.

“Of course,” The Merchant says slowly, turning the words over carefully in her mind. “We would love to.”

Miklan just mutely nods, knowing that if he spoke, he’d scream. Lady Alicia turns and guides them through the crowd of mourners and over to a table. Sylvain and Felix are both sitting there already, Felix absently picking at a torn apart pastry. When they arrive, Felix looks half relieved to see familiar faces, but he doesn’t speak. Miklan can’t blame him; he’s had a long, rough day.

Margrave Gautier rises out of his seat, straightening his silver embroidered waistcoat out. He’s dropped a few pounds since Miklan last saw him, likely from all this unrest going on in the Kingdom, his beard thicker and longer. His hair is chased with a few streaks of salt colored strands, but his grip is as powerful as Miklan remembers it being. “Lady Witch,” He greets, voice gruff. “...Miklan. You two seem well. That pleases me.”

“As do you,” The Merchant gives her generic reply, slowly sitting down at the table. Miklan does the same, scooting his chair close to hers so he’s a little farther away from them. “Fair winds have led us all over Fodlan.”  
  
“Indeed it has. Rodrigue was telling me a few years back that you two went to Duscur for a few years. Is that right?”   
  
The Merchant’s fingers slowly clench the fabric of her silk mourning dress. “Indeed. The gold ran like rivers there, and we went off to chase it.”

“Seems you found it before the whole country went up in flames. Is it true, Lady Witch, that the people of Duscur participated in eating raw meat?”

Miklan bites his tongue. Don’t speak. Don’t do it. Don’t tell your old man to shut up. The Merchant shakes her head no, her fingers twisted up in her skirts. “No, my lord. You’re likely thinking of one of their raw seafood dishes.” 

Margrave Gautier shudders at the thought, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine it.”

“It was actually quite delicious. It was eaten during fishing festivals.”

“Ah, well, can’t imagine they’ll be having those any time soon.”

The Merchant abruptly changes the subject. “How has business been here in Faerghus? Miklan and I have been out of the country for close to seven years. You’ll have to forgive us for not being up to date on our politics…”

The Margrave seems happy for the chance to talk politics, so he and the Merchant engage each other for a while. Lady Alicia summons more wine, and Sylvain and Miklan stare at each other over the Merchant’s head. Sylvain _ almost _ looks like he wants to say something, and Miklan’s tempted to as well, but the look they share tells them both what they need to know; _ today, we will be civil and quiet because a good man just died and we will not disgrace his memory. _

Miklan doesn’t realize that his father is speaking to him for a few good moments, not until the Merchant pinches him and whispers that his father wanted to know. “Your father is asking how business has been. It’s been good, don’t you think?”

Miklan clears his throat, evening his voice out. “It’s been fair and fine out on the road. While we were in Enbarr, I believe my miss was one of the richest merchants in all of Adrestia.”  
  
The Margrave raises an eyebrow. “‘My miss’, words I never thought I’d hear coming out of you. It seems you’ve calmed down significantly, and learned a few manners, on your adventures.”

Miklan’s lips pull back into a razor thin smile. “Only when I need them, _ sir _. I’ve had no qualms with doing what I must when the occasion arises.”

His father’s eyes narrow a little bit. He definitely picked up on that hostile undertone. Good. Miklan can’t bring himself to care that he should be minding his mouth. Taking in a good, even breath, the Margrave motions towards Sylvain, Lady Alicia jumping into finish the Margrave’s thought. “Well, Sylvain here has been training hard in preparation for the Officer’s Academy. Year of 1180, he and Felix will be going to Garreg Mach together.”

“Garreg Mach, eh?” Miklan looks the two of them over, thumbing at the irritated scar on his chin. “Sounds like a good opportunity.”

Lady Alicia speaks again, smiling. She’s got to be three wine glasses in, so it’s not hard to guess where Miklan got his taste for red wine. “Yes, Sylvie will be training to become a knight. He’ll need the skills when he eventually takes the household over.”  
  
“True.” Miklan has to fight to keep his tone even. “It’s hard work. And a lot of responsibility.” 

Sylvain twitches in his seat. “Oh yeah,” Sylvain finally speaks, leaning back in his chair. He’s only half invested in the conversation, though, eyes occasionally peeking back over towards the ever silent Felix, who still hasn’t eaten a scrap of that pastry. “I know. I’m working pretty hard to get ready. Hittin’ the books, hittin’ the training fields, all that.” 

“You say that, but you’ve been busy chasing the skirts of all the maids around the house,” Margrave Gautier interrupts, his shaggy brow furrowed in irritation. “Sneaking out, day in and out and coming back with these girls…”

“Dad, I have four years before you ship me off,” Sylvain replies, his tone darkening just a little. The Merchant and Miklan share a glance at each other. Felix looks like he wants to melt into the ground. “It’s gonna be fine, alright? Can we not get into this today?”

“Hmph,” Margrave Gautier harrumphs. “You cannot show us one thing and tell the contrary to the others. If you were anywhere near as disciplined as Felix--”

“Don’t bring Felix into this,” Sylvain hisses. Other people are starting to look over, whispering amongst themselves. Felix is staring down at his ripped apart pastry, through the table and past the floor. “He’s had a hard enough day.”

“At least Felix isn’t going out and about through his window at night.” The Margrave leans forward in his chair, fingers tightly laced on the table. “Lady Witch, can you believe that this child gets his kicks out of worrying his mother to death? Just the other day, he disappeared for days on end, coming back covered in hickies and bruises!”

The Merchant shifts uncomfortably in her own seat. She looks like she doesn’t want to be hearing _ any _of this, and Miklan certainly doesn’t either. “He’s young. Youth his age often want to explore themselves.”

“You don’t see Felix doing that. Certainly not. He knows he needs to be waiting properly for the right noblewoman.”

Sylvain’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t speak up, instead leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. Why doesn’t he speak up for himself? Miklan wonders that for just a moment, before deducing that it’s probably because he has to go home with them. He doesn’t seem afraid of them, just… tired and annoyed. 

Lady Alicia sighs, swirling her wine in her glass. “Well, at least he comes home eventually. But at this rate, I can’t help but wonder if we should have had another child as well, a nice little well behaved daughter. Who knows?”  
  
The Merchant’s shoulders go stiff. “That’s not a very kind thing to say in front of your own child.” Miklan’s actually rather surprised-- and rather impressed-- that the Merchant actually spoke up instead of passively agreeing or changing the subject. 

Lady Alicia doesn’t look too put off. “Ah, you don’t understand, Lady Witch. You’ve never had any children. You won’t understand these things until you do.” 

Miklan sees the Merchant’s jaw tighten, her lip pull back just a tad. She leans in towards Miklan’s side, and he knows to scoot in and take her hand under the table. Felix still hasn’t said a word. Miklan’s known he’s always been a rather quiet youth, having only heard him speak a handful of words in the past seven years, but even this is a little disconcerting. He kind of wants to tell the poor boy to get up from the table and leave this petty arguing, but before he can, Margrave Gautier speaks up again.

“In the very least,” He rumbles. “The one comfort Rodrigue has is that the Crestline survives still. Felix is still here with us, thank the Goddess for it, and can carry on that noble name.”

Felix’s eyes blow wide. Sylvain’s mouth falls open, and so does the Merchant’s. Miklan swears that he misheard that. How could one say something so insensitive?? “D-Dad,” Sylvain blusters. “That’s--”

“What? It’s the reality of it, Sylvain. It’s a horrid thing that happened to Glenn, Goddess rest his soul, but at least Glenn didn’t take the noble lineage with him when he passed...”

Felix’s shoulders begin to tremble. Whether it’s with grief or rage, Miklan can’t tell. He doesn’t care. Every single one of his nerves is on fire, burning, his teeth grit as he gets to his feet. 

All he can see in his mind is Glenn looking up at him with those pathetically sad blue eyes, tears streaking down his face. All he can see is Glenn telling him that all he wanted in life was to run away, but he had-- he had to care for his little brother. Shield him from the burdens of life.

_ I can’t abandon Felix with all my responsibilities... _

Miklan cannot hold his tongue any longer. The pulsing in the back of his brain is hotter than fire, hotter than the flames that ate Glenn alive. He’s not going to listen to them degrade Glenn’s memory like that--!

He slams his fists down onto the table top, causing everybody to jump back, Lady Alicia’s wine spilling across the fine white linens like a bloodstain on snow. Sylvain openly gasps, pulling Felix back, holding an arm out in front of him as if to shield him from Miklan’s fury.

“A man died,” Miklan grinds out, his fists still shaking on the tabletop. “A _ good man, _ my best friend, died, the entire royal family died, and you’re going to _ dare _ say that it’s a ‘shame’ Glenn died, but at least the _ Crestline _ gets to continue? As if that’s all that matters? Right in front of his little brother?!”

Rodrigue turns his head, hearing him all the way across the room. A red flush overcomes the Margrave’s face, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Don’t you _ dare _ speak to me in that tone, Miklan--”   
  
“Shut up!” Miklan snarls back at his father, slamming his fists into the table again. Now the whole reception’s eyes are on them, and he cannot bring himself to care that he is causing the scene he promised not to make. But the Merchant’s not stopping him, her red eyes wide, not even Rodrigue, now just a few paces away, is stopping him, so the words come tumbling out before he can even stop them. “How dare you! How _ dare _you say that shit in front of Felix! His older brother’s dead and you can barely wait ‘til he’s in the ground to start comparing him and Sylvain!” 

“Miklan,” Lady Alicia interrupts, utterly aghast. “Stop--”

“You shut up too, woman! You’re damn lucky you didn’t send Sylvain down to train as a knight with Glenn! What would have happened if you had?! He’d be dead and you’d be out of your little Crested moneymaker! But oh-- Oh, a minor Crest isn’t good enough anymore! Too bad he’s not a _ major _ like Felix! Too bad he isn’t _ Felix _!”

“Do not speak to your parents like th--”

“_ You aren’t my parents!! _ ” Miklan roars, his voice echoing across the arched ceilings. The sentence lifts out of his chest like a weight, spilling from his lips, and Goddess forgive him, it feels so _ good _to say. “You gave up being my parents when you shipped me off with the Merchant seven years ago!! I wasn’t good enough for you and now Sylvain isn’t either! Neither of us are good enough for you, you-- you pompous Crest-loving assholes!!”

The entire room goes still. Margrave Gautier is spluttering on his words, his face a ruddy color, unable to spit out any meaningful words, while Lady Alicia looks positively aghast, embarrassed to be spoken to in such a manner. Sylvain’s staring at Miklan, his mouth agape, so is Felix-- and so is everybody else. The whole room is looking at him.

Miklan stiffly pulls himself together, fully aware of what he’s done, and turns on his heel to face Rodrigue. He bows at the waist, stiff as a board, eyes cast towards the ground. Shit. Shit. He said he wasn’t going to do this. “I-- I apologize, Duke Rodrigue, for causing such a scene. I will remove myself now before I embarrass you further.” 

And he does as he promised. Miklan hardly waits for the Merchant to grab her coat before he’s out the door, ponytail bobbing behind him, leaving his family standing at the table. He can hear a few chairs scraping, people getting out of their seats, but he and the Merchant vanish into the depths of the house, going down a few hallways, up some stairs…

Miklan doesn’t stop moving, not until he and the Merchant get to their room. He stumbles in, the Merchant closing the door behind him, and he buries his face into his hands, already feeling a hot stream of angry tears starting to leak out from his eyes.

“Goddammit,” Miklan curses, angrily wiping at his face. “Goddammit, I told myself not to do that! Rodrigue’s gonna fucking kill me for ruining Glenn’s funeral!”

“No,” The Merchant retorts, grabbing his arm. “This time it was a good thing you spoke up. There’s a difference between arrogance and assertiveness. You put them in their place, Miklan. Who _ says _something like that, in front of the deceased’s brother no less??”

They’ve always been like that. Miklan wants to say that, but he’s too angry to, his head buzzing and hurting from the adrenaline. He sits down on the edge of his bed, head dropped into his hands, the Merchant sinking down beside him. He’s shaking, he’s shaking really hard. It’s a miracle he was even able to make it out of the foyer. He needs to breathe, in, out, try and calm the beating of his heart...

There’s a knocking on the locked door. Miklan groans; that’s likely a maid coming to politely tell them that they needed to pack up and get the hell out of here before someone came up here and murdered them for their impudence. The Merchant pulls herself up to go see who it could be, pressing her lips to the wood. “Who is it?”

Miklan’s not expecting the voice that replies back. He’s expecting a maid, or a furious Rodrigue, maybe even his parents, but not this. “It’s me, Sylvain. Can I come in?”

“No,” Miklan replies before he can even really ponder the words, rubbing his face dry of whatever snot and tears might be lingering. “No, you may not. Go away.” 

There’s a rough sigh from the other side of the door. “Please? I just want to talk.”

“_ Go away _.”

“Five minutes of your time. Please, Miklan. That’s all I ask.”

Miklan pauses there, eyes still cast towards the door. So he wants to talk, huh… it’d be very easy to tell Sylvain to go away again, it really would be, but something tells him not to. Especially after the little spiel their parents were going on about how annoying Sylvain was, their _ precious _little heir… Here he thought that his parents would have spoiled Sylvain rotten in his time away, but it looks like all Sylvain’s done is turn himself into a nuisance to them. 

He sighs and motions at the Merchant to open the door. “Fine.”

The Merchant undoes the heavy deadbolt, and cracks the door just so. Sylvain slides in, pulling his tailcoats out of the way to avoid having the silk crunched in the doorframe. Sylvain sighs, brushing his fluffy bangs out of his face, and he looks a lot older than he really is.  
  
“Where’s Felix?” The Merchant asks, noting that the raven haired teen hadn’t come with him.   
  
“Passed him off to his dad and told him to take care of him.” 

“Ah. Good.”

Sylvain slowly wanders further into the room, finding a chair near Miklan’s bed and sinking into it. The Merchant quietly murmurs that she’s going back downstairs and brave the crowd to go check on Rodrigue and Felix, and disappears from the room before Miklan can tell her to stop, no, wait-- 

The door closes behind her with a click. Miklan eyes Sylvain warily, bringing a sleeve up to his eyes to make sure that they weren’t red. He can feel the puffiness there still, and knows that he probably looks like an absolute disaster. 

“Not hanging out with our parents?” Miklan asks, his voice still hoarse, biting. 

“Nah, they were being obnoxious.” Sylvain replies. If he notices Miklan’s tone, he makes no note of it. “Started in about ‘mannerless Crestless’ as soon as you two bolted and I didn’t want to listen to it all day.” 

Sounds just like them. Miklan can see his mother’s face now, her skirts splashed red, wailing _ did you see the way he spoke to me? _His father’s probably busy complaining to Rodrigue, and Miklan can holy hope that Rodrigue sincerely tells them to piss off and leave him and Felix alone. The last thing he needed to deal with was with his entitled parents complaining to him yet again.

“Can’t even wait until Glenn’s settled in the ground before they start up again.” Sylvain sighs. “Guess I shouldn’t have put it past them with all the whining they’ve been doing about the house and about the inheritance.”  
  
“What, not enjoying your cushy little life these days? The milkmaids not buxom enough for your liking?” Miklan cannot help but snark.   
  
Sylvain’s lip curls back. Miklan cannot help but think that it’s almost like looking into a mirror and seeing himself reflected back. “Haha, yeah, it’s _ totally _great having women throw themselves at you because you have a Crest. Totally fun when they’re fondling you in front of the Goddess and everybody but hey, it’s okay because maybe you’ll pop out a Crested baby with said woman who’s twice as old as you, or one barely old enough to hold her liquor.” 

Sylvain bites back hard enough that it actually somewhat shocks Miklan. Sylvain had always taken his various cruelties when he was a kid in stride, or brushed off his attempts to insult him; he even bounced back pretty quickly from the one time he pushed the young upstart into their well, enough to take his revenge on him the night the Merchant came to their house. 

“You always were a ladies’ man when you were a kid,” Miklan decides to muse out loud, wishing he had some more wine with him. “What made you decide that it wasn’t all fun and games after all?” 

“A lot can change in seven years.” Sylvain says grimly, looking down at his hands. “Especially when you’re suddenly the only Crested son in the household.”

Miklan’s knee starts to bounce, telling himself to slow down and take a breath. Sylvain wasn’t actively trying to be annoying but just hearing him _ speak _about the house and his inheritance makes him want to punch him. Years of having Sylvain be the crux of his issues and insecurities simply could not vanish in a single conversation, nor did he expect them to. But he’s trying to temper himself. Trying.

“So why come here?” Miklan attempts to change the subject. “Out of _ all _the people you could have ran to, why come find me?” It’s a question that’s, admittedly, been on Miklan’s mind since Sylvain slid into their bedroom. “Why didn’t you go talk to Rodrigue?”

Sylvain sighs, his fingers twitching against his thighs. “Because Rodrigue needs to pay more attention to his son than me, and… out of everybody at this funeral, you’re the only one who probably feels the same way that I do.”  
  
“About what?”   
  
“The _ Crests _,” The word hisses past Sylvain’s lips as if it tasted bitter. “You know something, Miklan? Mom and Dad always said you were jealous of me because I was born with the Crest. So you ran off because you didn’t want to help the house and because you were a deadbeat. And I mean, at the time it sounded pretty likely.”

The young redhead leans back in his chair, casting his eyes up towards the ceiling. “...But something’s always bothered me. They all said you ran away. But… you came back once, after you ‘ran off’. Even Glenn always seemed to think differently about the whole thing.”

Miklan’s spine crawls. Whether it’s from Sylvain or the mention of Glenn’s name, he doesn’t know. “You-- spoke to Glenn?”  
  
“Not much,” Sylvain admits. “Just a few times here and there when he was around. But he was always sending you letters. Always writing replies, whenever I _ did _see him. And he always talked about you like you were a good guy. A hard worker.”

Glenn actually said that about him…? Miklan’s not sure if he should be sincerely touched by Glenn’s goodness, or if he should dig Glenn up and slap his corpse for telling Sylvain about him. It’s an odd cacophony of both. “Yeah? Glenn told me you were always fucking off and getting into trouble.”

Despite himself, Sylvain laughs, wiping a tear out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, sounds about right. Goddess knows my parents ragged Rodrigue about it enough. Blah blah, Sylvain this, blah blah, Sylvain that, blah blah, why can’t our son be like yours…”

The tone of his laughter takes on a sharp edge, a subtle warble, a delicate but deadly thing. Sylvain shakes his head, the sound dying in his throat. “Remember back when you said that the Crest was the only reason our parents loved me?”

Miklan winces. Thinking back on that, especially when he had actually wanted to tell Sylvain the truth, kinda hurts. “Yeah.”

“You were right.”

Sylvain’s eyelashes flutter, his fingers drumming on his silken thighs. “You really were right. These days, no matter what I do, no matter the things I say to make them loosen their grip on me, they always put up with me. They’ll whine about it, sure, but then they’ll say it’s all for the Gautier Crestline. All to keep the line alive. I really could be the worst deadbeat in the world, but as long as I managed to spit out a Crested baby, it alllll would have been worth it.”

“Of course it would to them,” Miklan snorts. “You could kill someone and they’d bend over backwards to defend you because of the Crest.That’s the way it’s _ always _been, remember?”

“Oh, haha, rub it in,” Sylvain snarls, hurt fluttering across his face. “Bet it doesn’t feel so bad being Crestless now, does it?”

“With our family??” Miklan has to fight back the urge to stand up and pop his brother across the face. “I was worth less than a pot of expensive tea to them. Don’t you tell me that being Crestless was a good thing with _ our _folks!”

Sylvain pauses for a moment, deciding against arguing back with his brother, and drops his head into his hands. “Can we not?” Sylvain strains out. “Can we… please not get into it? I hear enough from our folks, I don’t need to be reminded of it.”

Miklan opens his mouth to retort, and then slowly closes it. He takes in a deep breath, pushing down the anger that wants to so desperately come out. Sylvain rubs at his temples, his voice much quieter when he speaks again. “The more I look, the more I see Crests just ruining people’s lives. Our folks are already aiming to shove me and Ingrid together, can’t even wait until the poor widow has a day to grieve. Everybody talks about how I’m gonna lead the house, I’m gonna defend the border like generations before me, I’m gonna do this-- I-I just wanna run away and be a normal man, like you.”

Miklan’s stomach twists uncomfortably, his jaw tightening up. The hurt in Sylvain’s eyes is very real, and very dark. Sylvain shudders and shakes his head, as if trying to shake the evil thoughts from it. “Y’know what? You don’t seem as much as a dead weight as our parents always said you were. I thought that living a life like yours, selling jewelry and following Miss Merchant around, sounded lowly and boring, but honestly, at least you seem _happy. _I’m surrounded by servants and maids and live a life people would kill for but all I want to do is just… vanish.”

_ I wish I could have been like you… _

_ Kid’s under the same pressure Glenn was under, _Miklan realizes weakly. All this time he’d thought that Sylvain would have been living the high life, when in reality, the Gautier Inheritance had become his own personal hell...

Unable to stand the thought, Miklan pushes himself off of the edge of his bed. Sylvain looks like he’s expecting him to yell, or maybe hit him, but instead, Miklan heads for the door, undoing the deadbolt. “You wait right here,” He tells Sylvain. “I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for a response, Miklan disappears out the door, heading down the hall and shuffling down the stairs. He was about to look like an asshole, _ again _, but he’d already done that enough today, so he thinks he can bear a little more. He doesn’t quite venture all the way back into the funeral reception foyer; what he does instead is he locates a maid’s wine cart, steals two bottles of red wine and two glasses, taking it all back up to the Merchant’s room.

He returns, closing the door behind him with a foot. Sylvain’s ginger brows furrow, looking at the wine. “Uh, what are you doing?”  
  
“We’re drinking in Glenn’s honor and forgetting about the Crests for a bit,” Miklan declares, setting the wine down on the table between he and the Merchant’s beds. “Because I don’t wanna hear about them and you don’t wanna be reminded of them.”

“A drink? With my disowned, Crestless brother?” Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “People might talk...”  
  
“Shut up. Nobody’s seeing you do it, so it’s fine. Do you care?”   
  
Sylvain pauses for a moment, before slowly getting out of his chair and picking up a glass. “Nope.”

Miklan locates his pocket knife in a bag and pulls the cork from one bottle, pouring their glasses quite a bit higher than what polite society would dictate. “This one’s for you, Glenn.” Miklan says somberly as he lifts his glass in a toast. “Find rest with the Goddess.”

The two clink glasses, and Sylvain takes a sip from his glass before promptly downing the whole thing. He’s holding out his glass for another round, and Miklan just fills him up again. This repeats a few times until one bottle’s empty, and Miklan opens the second so he can nurse from it as well. Outside, the gloomy skies only grow darker and darker as night overtakes the sky entirely, the end of a long, awful day. 

“I need to be getting back soon,” Sylvain half slurs, looking at the door. “Folks are probably going to want to start home. Man, they’re gonna be pissed when they see I’m a mess.”

“That’s your own fault for almost drinking a bottle of wine by yourself,” Miklan points out, his head buzzing. “But if you gotta go, get outta here. Don’t cause any more trouble.”

“Why ever not?” Sylvain smiles, the gesture sweet but wicked. “I could puke all over the carriage. That’d be fun.”  
  
“That sounds disgusting. And you have to watch out for Felix now, Sylvain-- don’t go causing trouble he has to clean up later.”

Sylvain pulls himself to his feet, staggering a bit. He shakes his head, his eyes scrunching when he realizes that that was probably a bad idea. “Yeah, you… you’re right. I’ll try. Never thought I’d say this, but uh… thanks for letting me hide out with you for a while. Even if you don’t like me.”

Miklan hmphs. “I still don’t. Let’s not get that wrong.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sylvain shakes a hand, wandering towards the door. His hands fumble with the deadbolt, and the Miklan has to get up to open it for him, pushing him through with a hand on his back. Sylvain turns around, and gives him a mock salute, his face quite red in the candlelight. “Farewell. Maybe we’ll see each other again in less garbage circumstances.”

“Maybe.”

That answer is good enough for Sylvain, who turns and slowly begins to make his way down the hall. Miklan squints in the dim light, watching to see if the little idiot falls down the stairs, and when it appears he’s made it, he goes back inside and closes the door. Miklan sits back down on his bed, undoes his coat and a few blouse buttons, and knocks back another glass of wine.

The Merchant returns after a few minutes, once the sounds of people shifting downstairs starts to stop. Miklan can spot the carriages of other nobles leave the Fraldarius stables out the window, little lights in the darkness that seem to blur the further away they get. Or it could be all the wine he drank causing that.

“I just saw Sylvain leave drunker than hell.” The Merchant asks, white brows furrowed. “Did… did you two stay up here and drink all evening?”  
  
“Yeah.” Miklan replies bluntly, swishing the remainders of his wine in his goblet. “Kid came up to hide from his parents. We talked.”

“You _ talked _ ?”   
  
“Is that so strange?”   
  
“Considering how much you hate him, forgive me for thinking that it is.” The Merchant comes and sits down on her bed, unpinning her hat and veil from her updo and tossing it onto the table. Her diamond earrings and necklace follow, scattering across the tabletop. “But I guess that’s good. What did you talk about?”   
  
“Crests and their bullshit.” Miklan mumbles, blinking slowly. His head was starting to buzz even more. Maybe it was time to lay down. He puts his glass down on the nightstand and slowly lays down, kicking his boots off. “Kid’s gonna end up like Glenn.”

“He’s hurting.” The Merchant notes sadly. “It… was very kind of you, to talk with him. Maybe he feels a little better about everything now.”  
  
Miklan mms, and turns over onto his side. “I’m gonna sleep now.”   
  
“In your silk clothes?”   
  
“Don’t wanna take them off.”

The Merchant sighs, and gets to her feet. He feels her lean over his side, pulling at the sleeves of his coat until one arm is out, followed by the other. She drapes the silk coat over the edge of his bed frame, and pulls the black ribbon from his hair, draping the quilts over his shoulder.  
  
“Goodnight then.” The Merchant murmurs. “I’ll try and be quiet.”

Miklan makes a noise of affirmation, and settles more into his pillow. The Merchant dims the lantern light, and after getting herself out of her gown, settles into bed with a small book. Miklan’s head buzzes from the wine, memories of Glenn, Sylvain, his father yelling at him over the table…

Miklan dreams of Glenn at the beach, his hair tousled and a smile on his face. Glenn wades into the sea, waving softly at him to join him, but before he can, the soft light of dawn rouses him. His head _ hurts, _Goddess, he shouldn’t have drank so much… 

He lays in bed for a while, staring at the wall. Glenn was gone. The thought still makes his eyes sting. But he had to keep going.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see! I'm falling behind in writing, I really gotta get back to it... christmas is such an exhausting season.
> 
> I had some art for Heartlines done by the very talented @Valesti_ ! there will be one of the portraits near the end of the chapter. 
> 
> thanks to speedy as always!
> 
> twitter: @dedizenoflight  
reddit: @spedira

_ Hidden amongst the living, you are flesh and blood and you deserve to be loved, and you deserve what you are given, and oh, how much..? _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1176 _ _  
_ _ Wyvern Moon, Day 2 _

_ Derdriu, Leicester Alliance _

“You’re really leaving?” Ryker asks softly. Behind them, the mail ship groans and sways in the waters, ropes being tossed down from the ship to tie the great behemoth to the docks. Seagulls cry and beg for scraps, swooping down to tease the dock cats waiting for a meal. High above the clouds, the yearly wyvern migration has begun, the great beasts heading south towards their roosts in the Adrestian Empire, their calls echoing across the city.

Miklan blows out a sigh and nods. “The Merchant can’t sit still anymore. She’s got the itch to travel again, and to be frank, so do I. You and Milo are free to rent the house, just as long as you don’t trash it or whatever…” 

Ryker gathers Miklan up into a giant hug before he can stop him, squeezing the breath out of him. Miklan squirms in his arms, trying to break free from the man’s iron grip, pulling his head out of his shoulder. “R-- Ryker, I can’t breathe--”

The large man lets go of him, holding his shoulders and regarding him with kind eyes, which are already brimming up with tears again. “When do you two leave?”  
  
“End of the month,” Miklan confirms, rubbing his side. Goddess, Ryker could snap him in half if he really wanted to. “The Merchant’s wrapping up loose ends. It’s the second shop she’s had to sell in two years, so she’s kinda torn up about it. But I think a few years of moving around the merchant circuit would do us some good.”

“Can’t sit still due to grief?”

Miklan looks out over the sea, down to the beaches where he and Glenn last met. “Neither one of us can take the memories,” He admits softly, watching the waves crash on the shore. “So I think moving around will help.”

Miklan and the Merchant had stayed behind at the manor for a little while after the funeral, if only to be there for Dedue, who was now all alone in the world. He seemed to appreciate the company, but after a few days, it became apparent that Miklan could not stand to be under the same roof that Glenn once grew up under. Dimitri had recovered well enough by that time as well that Dedue was wholly focused on him, and the two didn’t seem keen to be seperated. Miklan can’t help but be grateful that Dedue had found an eternal companion in the prince; perhaps he would be protected from the vicious attacks thrown his way.

But Miklan had remained haunted, even after they had come home. He had woken up crying out for someone who wasn’t there more often than he’d like to admit. The Merchant’s daily nightmares had come back tenfold as well, to the point where she would crawl into bed with him to have another warm body to reach out to. After a few weeks of this, the Merchant had decided that maybe a change of scenery was necessary once again. While Miklan would normally be upset at such another drastic change, he cannot help but agree with this decision. 

“So, yeah. Just keep us posted.” Miklan finishes, eager to move on from the subject. “You and Milo are about to be on break, yeah? Come over for dinner sometime and we can sort out a contract. I’m sure the Merchant will cut you a deal.”

Ryker sniffs. “You and the Merchant have been very kind to Milo and I. The past year has brought fair winds and lots of work-- oh, before I forget…”

Ryker pats down his pockets, feeling around for something. When they prove empty, he jams his hands into the leather pouches hanging from his belt, rifling around in them until he finds a note with an ‘aha’, pulling it out and presenting it to him. 

“This one’s for you,” Ryker says as Miklan takes the thick envelope, looking it over. “Just has your first name, but anybody ‘round these parts can recognize you in a heartbeat. Were you expecting mail?”  
  
Miklan’s mouth quirks back into a slight snarl when he turns the letter over, finding the bright orange seal of the Gautier family on the back. “No, not really. This is probably from my folks. Can’t be anything good.”

“Well,” Ryker says, squeezing his shoulder. “Good luck with whatever it is. Tell the Merchant Milo and I will be by soon. And you take care, okay?”  
  
“Yeah, thanks,” Miklan waves him off, clapping him once on the arm in farewell. “Tell Milo I’m going to give him a hard time when he gets off the ship.”  
  
“I heard that!!” The hotheaded blonde on the ship’s deck replies, throwing a round of rope at him. Miklan easily sidesteps and heads up the docks, shoving the envelope from his folks into his satchel without much care. He was gonna foist it onto the Merchant as soon as he got home, seeing as he was in no mood to read it. For now, he takes his time, stopping here and again to stoop and pet the dock cats he was familiar with.  
  
“Hello, Small Fry,” He greets his favorite kitty, a young white cat with only one eye. It reminds him a lot of the Molinaro’s old cat, the one that used to sleep in his bed with him. Poor thing probably perished with the rest of the family… “I got you a little treat today.”

Miklan sits down on the dock and reaches into his pack, carefully pulling out a small, cloth wrapped bag of dried smelts. Almost at once, as soon as the scent of fish hits the air, he’s swarmed by an army of wailing cats, kittens crawling up his back and adults pawing desperately at his sides. “No, you little assholes!” Miklan wriggles, shaking the cats off of him. “This is for Small Fry!”

Miklan holds out a smelt for the little cat, who quickly bites into it and takes off, jumping into an empty barrel to enjoy his treat. Miklan scatters the rest of the smelt, realizing that if he held onto it much longer, he was liable to lose a finger. The various cats all form a circle, pulling the fish apart in a matter of moments with surprising ferocity. Miklan makes a break for it before they get any other ideas to pummel him for food, and half wonders if maybe he could convince the Merchant to let him take Small Fry with them when they move.

The rest of the walk home is uneventful, even if now the smell of smelt permeates his clothes. He was gonna need to bathe as soon as he walked in the door… As if on cue, when he opens the front door, the Merchant yells from the dining room, “Go bathe because you smell like dead fish!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going!” Miklan yells back, pulling his satchel off and hanging it up by the doorpost. He pulls the envelope out of the bag, venturing into the dining room long enough to torment the woman with his smell, and to slap the letter onto the table. “Got this from my folks. You wanna open it and see what the hell they want?”  
  
The Merchant furrows her brows, reaching over her lunch of yellow spiced rice and chopped chicken to grab the envelope, looking it over. “Yeah, I’ll take a look. Any idea on what you think it could be?”  
  
“Hopefully a note saying that my folks dropped dead of the pox.” 

“Oh, haha. Now get out of here, you smell awful.”

Miklan finally runs upstairs to grab a change of clothes, and comes back downstairs and disappears into the bathroom. He grabs a roll of tinder from the bin and sticks it in the water heater tank, dropping a lit match into it and closing the lid with a set of tongs. That ought to get the charcoal going long enough for a nice soak. Once the tin startles rattling, Miklan hefts the water pump and gets the cedar tub full of nice, slightly too hot water. In goes a packet of packed flower petals, stolen out of the Merchant’s little bath tin, and after he sheds his clothes, Miklan goes in too, hissing at the temperature. 

This would probably be one of the last few times he and the Merchant have ready access to hot soaks whenever they desire, so Miklan’s going to make use of it before they return to a life of hard travel. It’d probably do them some good; while he’s managed to keep himself in good shape over the past seven years, he was itching to get moving and do more than shop work and going with the Merchant to social events. For a guy hired to be her bodyguard, he was actually doing very little of that…

He can hear the Merchant snickering from the dining room. Now that’s a rare noise these days; what on earth could be so funny about that letter? Miklan’s curiosity outweighs wanting to stay in the tub, so he makes quick work of getting the fishy smell off of him and climbs out of the tub, drying himself off and shimmying into his clean clothes. 

By the time he gets out there, the Merchant’s laid out several pieces of paper, most of which look quite official with their wax seals and big signatures. There’s a letter she’s reading over with a slight smirk, and when she notices Miklan trundling in, it only gets bigger. “It’s from your parents alright. You need to sit down and read this yourself. It’s honestly a little comical.”

Miklan finishes tying his hair up with its soft blue ribbon, a parting gift from Felix after Glenn’s funeral, and sits down at the table. Goddess, that was a lot of paper… he takes the letter from the Merchant and skims it over. He bites his lower lip the further he gets, a demented sort of gleeful smile curling his upper lip, until he finally manages out a snark.

“This has got to be the most dramatic response to being yelled at _ ever _ .” Miklan chuckles, tapping on the line that finally made him lose it. “‘ _ You have brought shame to the family name _ ’ is a good one.”  
  
“Keep going, it gets even better.”  
  
“No, I know-- _ ‘how dare you show such disrespect to the people who cared for you, in front of the whole noble class of Faerghus-- I cannot believe you would bring such anguish to Rodrigue during a difficult time-- the Merchant may dress you in fine clothes but she hasn’t taught you any manners _’.” 

Miklan is cackling by the time he gets to the last few lines. “‘_Therefore, since you have boldly claimed that your mother and I are not your parents before the nobility, you find yourself absolutely correct in this regard. From this day forward, you no longer bear the Gautier name, nor will you receive any share of the home, territory, or funds when your mother and I pass. On paper, you are now a legal adult with no noble standing nor any family. We--’_”

Miklan’s laughing too hard to continue, slamming a fist into the tabletop. “What-- what makes them think I _ care _? Is this some kind of ‘got you’ moment? I haven’t called myself a Gautier since we went to Enbarr!”

“It was still your last name on all official documents,” The Merchant replies , wiping a merry tear from her eye. “But now I guess you really are Miklan Anschutz. All the rest of the papers are notary signed and sealed, so they-- they really did just strip your last name and noble title because you stood up to them.”

Miklan tosses the letter to the tabletop, the papers fluttering out of their sheath. “Good! Someone needed to! I just… What on earth would make them think that I care? Honestly! Do they think I’ll come crawling back _ begging _ for forgiveness?”  
  
“They truly might.”  
  
“Well, it ain’t happening!” Miklan gets out a few more chuckles before picking the letter back up, taking it to the burning cookfire in the kitchen. “You know what I have to say to all of this?”  
  
“Wait, wait, don’t burn that, we might need it for legal reasons--”

And thus, after the Merchant spends thirty minutes making a copy of the official letter for him, Miklan takes the copy and throws it into the cookfire, watching the paper light up and shrivel away into nothingness. At long last, it feels like those last few chains that hung from his neck have been taken off and cast into the sea. Free! Free from his family name at long last!

In all honesty, Miklan doesn’t really feel sad or upset. He might have been a few years ago, but after their shameful display at Glenn’s funeral, he’s glad to be rid of every trace of them. He could deal with any lingering insecurities later; for right now, he sits down and just pleasantly takes in the fact that he no longer had anybody holding him down. This really was the best thing his parents could have ever done for him, and they likely didn’t even realize it.

“I know that they’re sitting there thinking they’ve just served me a hard blow,” Miklan muses out loud, now returning to the table and thumbing through all the fancy, notarized documents stripping him of all his titles and names. “But this is honestly great. Morons don’t even realize they’ve given me a gift!”

The Merchant smiles over her teacup, placing the delicate thing back onto its saucer. “We should celebrate with our friends before we leave Derdriu. After that, we’ll take these all to the courthouse and get them on record down here, and pay to have the information sent to Enbarr too. No doubt your parents have sent the documents all over Faerghus to make sure the news has gotten out.”

“Back to Enbarr, eh? Think we’ll be heading back that way?”  
  
“Maybe.” The Merchant takes another sip of her tea, scrunching her nose as she realizes the tea’s gone cold. “I want to tour the merchant circuit here in the Alliance first. I’ve never been in the Alliance for very long, so it’d be well worth seeing what all is here. Plus it will give the Adrestian Empire time to clean up the aftermath of the Brigid and Dagda War...”

Miklan thinks back to the Empire, and wonders if their house was still on that same street by the palace plaza. The fighting hadn’t reached Enbarr, from what he heard, but maybe the bastard that owned the villa decided to tear it down or something. Or Aegir repossessed it to turn it into a bathhouse. He wouldn’t put it past the old bastard. 

But soon… All of Fodlan would know that he no longer had a noble title or a last name. What a weird thing to think about. Miklan stops rustling through the papers and leans his cheek on his hand, looking over at the older woman. “So, I don’t have a last name now. And I just realized you never told me yours.”  
  
“Did I not?” The Merchant’s white brows furrow. “I thought I told you.”  
  
“Woman, you didn’t tell me your name for years! Of course you didn’t tell me, getting information from you is like pulling teeth!”

“Huh.” The Merchant leans back in her seat, folding her hands up in her lap. “My apologies. My whole name is Aletheia Lethy Soros, and don’t you go around repeating it. And Lethy may seem like it’s a middle name, but it’s tied together with Soros. We did not have middle names in my country as you do in Fodlan.” 

Miklan tries the words on his tongue, seeing how they feel. “Leh-thee Soros. Huh. Okay.”  
  
Now he had the Merchant’s true name, a name attached to all the memories and all the family traditions she had passed onto him during her nightly stories. She feels like a real person these days now, and not some seamless puppet that had an endless array of masks and personalities. She was still quite stoic, and still shielded herself and all her secrets from most people, but Miklan actually feels like he knows the _ real _her, the woman that hid underneath all the pomp and mystery of a traveling journeywoman. 

The Merchant casts her eyes up towards the ceiling, seemingly mulling on a thought. “I’ve been thinking.” She begins softly.

“Oh no, that’s not good.”

“_ Hush _, you-- no, truly, I’ve been thinking. Glenn’s death is what spurred the thought, but… Miklan, have you given much stock into what might happen if I were to die?” 

Miklan blinks, not expecting that to come out of her mouth. With a wrinkled brow, Miklan frowns and tosses the words around in his head, trying to make more sense of them. “N… No? Why would I do that?” 

“Let’s think about it.” The Merchant leans forward, bringing her laced fingers to the tabletop. “Let’s picture a scenario-- I die tomorrow from being struck by lightning.”

“That’s _ stupid. _”

“I know, and it would never happen and I don’t intend on dying any time soon, but I’m just using it as an example. What would happen to my business? All my goods, my money, my estate? You’ve been my bodyguard for years now, so I would want my goods to go to you-- but we have no binding agreement or contract of any sort. My whole family was wiped out in the war so I have no next of kin either. You’d receive nothing, and the state would claim my whole estate.” 

Miklan doesn’t reply, still stewing on those words. She... wanted everything to go to him? Of course, it made sense, seeing as how he knew the ends and outs of her business and how she wanted things done-- but inheriting all of her money, everything she owned and all her business seems halfway terrifying to him. Even more so than that is the thought of the Merchant somehow dying. 

For the past seven years, the Merchant really had seemed untouchable, invincible. She somehow avoided major injury during all their time on the road, avoided major illness and had been in good health, but what if… what if she suddenly wasn’t? What if he had to take care of her while she laid in bed, writhing with fever? What if he failed to protect her from another bandit attack and she took a knife to the gut? The thought of having her bleed out in his arms makes him want to puke, he--

“So what do you propose?” Miklan asks, trying to shove those darkening thoughts out of his head. 

“Adoption.” 

The word is so simple, but it still gives Miklan pause. “You… you wanna run that by me again?”

“Adoption is the surest way for me to ensure that both of us will be taken care of should misfortune befall us.” The Merchant replies as if it were all very obvious. “You’re a legal adult so I would need your consent, of course, and there’d be a few legal things to navigate through, such as the writing of a will, but your parents disinheriting you actually would make it very easy for me to take you under my family name. Like that… If anything ever happened, we would be protected.”

“Your family name…” Miklan repeats, looking down at the scattered papers on the table. He reaches out and slowly takes the most important one in hand, scrawled in his father’s elegant handwriting and sealed with his signet, the curved Crest of Gautier. _ From this day forward, Miklan Anschutz Gautier is stripped of his name, his titles and all he was entitled towards, and we will no longer acknowledge him as kin…. _

Miklan repeats a name under his breath, softly, testing it to see how it sounds. How it would fall off of his tongue if he introduced himself as that. As…

A tiny smile creases his lips. This would be the ultimate middle finger to his former family, and he can’t think of any better way to do it.

“What would need to be done?”

The Merchant actually looks a little surprised, as if not expecting him to be on board with such an arrangement. “Well, we’d have to take all of this to the courthouse, and then I would have to write an adoption petition. Your folks would probably be sent a courtesy notification, and then--”  
  
“You’ve put thought into this, haven’t you?” Miklan blurts out before he can stop himself. No normal person would know all of this off the top of their head. “Have you _ really _been mulling about this for that long?”

The Merchant’s quiet for a moment, before a low sigh escapes her. She looks out the window and towards the cloudy sea, watching the soft waves twist under the horizon line. “...Perhaps for a little while, yes. All this talk of death has made me acutely aware that everything around me dies so much sooner than I wish it. People and things slip out of my grasp before I can take hold of them. And if it’s possible, I… I wish to protect what I have now, before I lose them again.”

Miklan’s taken back to that night, almost a month ago now, where he and the Merchant were tucked up in her bedroom as she told him in whispered breaths about the death of her family and the woman who did it. There, in the soft candlelight, Miklan had taken in the features of her face and realized that they hadn’t changed at all in the past seven years. Not a wrinkle. Not a hair out of place. 

And yet her eyes carried an old, burning flame in them, one that didn’t befit a woman of her supposed age. Miklan pulls in a slow, deep breath, picking his words carefully. “...How old are you?”

A loaded question, one she understands at once by the flutter of emotion that goes across her face. The Merchant keeps her eyes trained out the window, but Miklan can see the pull of her lip, a grimace, as she tries to think of a good answer to that question. Whether or not she wants to lie.

“I’m unsure if you will believe me or not.” The Merchant tests the waters with her non-answer.

“I’ve believed almost everything you’ve thrown at me thus far.” Miklan replies, looking at her head on, even if she won’t meet his eyes. “You can’t surprise me much these days. Just try me.”

The Merchant doesn’t reply right away. She closes her eyes, and seemingly comes to a decision within her mind. With a small sigh, she opens her eyes once more and turns to face him, her red eyes meeting his brown ones.  
  
“...I don’t know.” The Merchant truthfully answers. “Not anymore.”

That settles it then. A suspicion that Miklan has been carrying for a few years now is answered, at least partially. “Can you really be cursed to live forever?”

“It has happened before, if you read old myths from other countries. The magic cast on me was dark, Miklan, so dark and powerful that nothing I’ve tried has broken it. Death can come from injury or illness, as I nearly learned during a plague, but a natural death will forever escape me.”

To be unable to die… such a concept is hard for Miklan to wrap his head around. To live forever seemed like blasphemy to the Goddess, for only She was given the gift of eternal life, but the magic She put into the world also worked in mysterious ways. And it wasn’t like the Merchant did it to herself either...

“Does Rodrigue know?” Miklan is consumed with the morbid need to know who all knew before he did. “What about Glenn?”

“Rodrigue, yes, he’s been aware of my nature for years now. Glenn… Glenn never knew, no. If he had an idea, he never spoke it to me. This is one of the reasons I hide behind so many smokescreens, so many names that don’t belong to me-- I don’t want to be found by those would seek to use me for evil.”

The Merchant sighs, rubbing her forehead. Miklan’s now filled with more questions than answers now that he has the truth, and she can sense that. “Miklan, I promise you that if we go through with this, all of my secrets will become yours. It’s something I have owed you for years now.”

“But you’re serious,” Miklan shoves the papers away from him to lean into the tabletop, scrutinizing her. She appeared no different now, but now he realizes that the woman has lived several lifetimes and has likely watched endless families go into the Goddess’s arms without her. “You _ really _want to do this beyond spiteing my parents?”

The Merchant chuckles softly, the sound quiet. “While that might be part of it, I… I mean what I said. Life passes by me so quickly. People come into my life and vanish within such a short amount of time. I have never been able to bear the grief of watching a spouse and any children die, so I have lived alone all this time. But I’m asking this of you full well knowing that you will age, more than you already have, that you’ll grow up, and maybe you’ll meet someone and want to marry them, that I will give you away at whatever altar you get married at and watch you make a family.”

She swallows back a noise, as if a tiny sob wanted to leave her. “I ask you, knowing that you will age while I stay like this forever, that you’ll grow grey and feeble and unable to help me the way you used to. I ask this knowing that one day I’ll hold you while you breathe your last, that I will have to bury you, and knowing that it will _ kill me _to do so. But if only for a little while, I want to keep you by my side as family. I want to protect you while I still can, if… if you’ll have me.”

Miklan is absolutely not expecting the suckerpunch of emotions that suddenly come over him. Grief, shock, an intense longing he wasn’t aware he had inside of him… To feel _ wanted _in such a way is foreign, frightening, but something he finds that he wants so badly. 

His mother Alicia had cared for him as needed as a child, but her gaze had always been empty, longing, as she combed his hair after a long day out playing in the fields at the base of the mountains. He’d always been acutely aware of it, aware that something was wrong, something that was well beyond his power to fix or control…

And then when Sylvain was born, Alicia forgot he existed half the time. In a memory that Miklan had long buried until now, he remembers standing at the door to Sylvain’s nursery, peeking inside through the cracked door, watching his mother feed Sylvain at her breast. She had looked so beautiful in that moment, her face haloed in the light of the lanterns, her pretty red hair brought back into a loose plait and cloaked in a linen dress. To him, she looked like the Goddess Herself, looking down at her creation with such a soft, tender gaze…

She had caught sight of him looking inside. And he remembered watching all the warmth that she held for the baby in her arms be sucked right out of her eyes. 

Miklan no longer felt any love for his parents. He hadn’t for a long time. But the longing to be noticed, to be accepted, had been buried deep underneath all the anger, the hatred he felt for being rejected for not having a Crest. The feeling shocks him, almost scares him, but the Merchant’s pushing herself out of her seat, coming around to his side and taking a hold of him and he finds that he’s _ leaning _ into her, resting his head against her. 

“You sure you’re not pulling my leg?” Miklan finds himself asking, still unsure if this was all some sort of weird fever dream or some kind of joke. “You aren’t going to take all this back?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The Merchant replies back in a whisper. “Not after all this time.”

“Okay,” Miklan murmurs, putting his head more into the warmth of her maroon coat. His face feels wet, but he’s not sure from what. Why is he shaking so much?

“You promise?” He finds himself asking. Just to make sure.

“I promise.” 

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1176 _ _  
_ _ Wyvern Moon, Day 27 _

_ Derdriu Courthouse, Inner Sanctum _

The Merchant checks over all her paperwork again, thumbing through them in order that the judge will likely be asking for them. Miklan watches her organize a few worn pieces of paper; the first contract that his parents had drafted between them, then the paper she made him sign in Lund, Faerghus, relinquishing him from her ownership. 

There’s almost seven years of correspondence between them, all copied into a neat leatherbound book, copies of sales he’d made in her shop, then the packet that the Gautiers had sent at the start of the month. There’s a written will she had made last week, then a letter of consent from him. 

“Watch us go through all this effort to have the judge say no,” Miklan half jokes to her, although there’s a lingering tension in his gut. “That’d just be our luck, wouldn’t it?”  
  
“I don’t see why they would say no,” The Merchant replies without looking up from her files, making sure that her tabs are in the right place. “You’re of age and we have a clear letter of disownment, so we should be fine. They’ve had all month to review everything, so...:”

“Ms. Lethy Soros?” The reception calls from the back of the room. The Merchant jumps at the mention of her last name, but quickly straightens herself out and closes her file, standing up. The receptionist motions towards the carved door to her left. “The judge will see you and Mr. Anschutz now.”

The moment of truth. Miklan stands up with the Merchant, watching her shuffle her overstuffed file into her arms. Blowing out a breath, she glances over at him, and then they walk together towards the door, which is opened by a waiting page. As they walk in, they are bathed in speckled, colored light, the sun pouring into the great chamber through richly adorned stained glass windows.

This place had once been a magnificent church, but after endless battles with Almyra back in the day, the Roundtable had voted to instead refurbish the building into a courthouse to save on time and material. But the Inner Sanctum had hardly changed at all since its time as a great church, pews still in place for the public viewing gallery, which is partially filled. The wooden choir stalls have been pushed against the left and right walls, probably where juries sit in, and the altar rails now serve as the wall between the gallery and the main court.

The altar has been long replaced by the bench, the judge’s seat, the flag of the Alliance proudly draped behind it. The black-clad judge is waiting for them at the bench, wrinkled hands crossed underneath his gold-piped sleeves. Miklan and the Merchant come to a stop at the altar rails and bow a little at the waist. 

A guard, armed with a lance, calls out in a loud, clear voice. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Markus von Edmund!” 

Like a smooth wave, those watching in the gallery rise, bow, and then sit again. Markus waves a hand and a page comes to open the gate to let Miklan and the Merchant in, the grey haired man coming down from the bench. There’s another chair already prepared at one of the tables-- that was good, Miklan thinks. At least the judge wasn’t going to be hollering at them halfway across the well.

The gate is closed behind them, and when Markus stops in front of them, they bow again. “Let’s get underway,” Markus motions for them to go ahead and sit down at the table. “If everything’s in order, this won’t take too long…”

Miklan and the Merchant sit down, and as Markus takes his seat, the Merchant begins to spread out all of her paperwork. The judge’s shaggy brow wrinkles as he takes in all of the paperwork, reading over the contracts and every scrap of correspondence the Merchant has provided. “I’ve seen a few adult adoptions over my years, but let me tell you, I think this is the first time I’ve seen one involving someone from a Faerghus noble family.”

“Eh, first time for everything, right?” Miklan says, leaning back in his wooden seat. The judge chuckles a little and turns over some paperwork, nodding when he sees the Merchant has it all in order. 

“Let’s see, let’s see… Ms. Lethy Soros, did you bring a will?”  
  
“Yes,” The Merchant replies, pushing the bundle of papers towards the judge. “It’s pretty simply laid out and I had it notarized just a few days ago.” 

It takes a while for Markus to thumb through the will, but upon seeing the notary’s embossed seal, he folds it up and returns it to the pile. He finishes browsing the disownment document, and then Miklan’s letter of consent. “Mr. Anschutz, your letter makes it fairly clear, but I have to ask again; do you believe there’s no reconciliation between you and your family? Once you are bound to Ms. Lethy Soros, there will be no returning to your noble name should your family want reconciliation.”

“The Gautier name is cursed and I’m glad to be rid of it. I’m never going back to them.” Miklan answers without an ounce of hesitation. The Merchant turns her head a little, and he swears he sees her smile out of the corner of his eye. 

“And what name have you chosen? Are you taking Ms. Lethy Soros’ name?”  
  
“Yeah. Miklan Anschutz Lethy Soros.”

The judge nods, and motions with a hand. A page appears with a small silver tray, carrying a few sheaths of paper, a lit golden candle, a seal and an inkwell with a quill. “Well, all appears to be in order. Let’s get the paperwork done and you’ll be on your way.”  
  
Miklan’s heart is oddly pounding in his chest as Markus slides the paper over to him to sign. Steadying his name, Miklan signs his name, his new name, _ Miklan Anschutz Lethy Soros _ . The page pours a little bit of the candle’s golden wax next to his name, and he presses his ring into it to seal the signature. The Merchant does the same with her name, _ Aletheia Lethy Soros _, and at last, the judge signs his name as well, and seals the document with the court’s seal.

They sign six more copies in this way; one for the three countries of Fodlan, one for Garreg Mach’s great archive hall, one to ensure both of them had a copy, and the last to be sent to the Gautiers as a courtesy. Miklan snorts at the thought of his father tearing into an important packet of papers from the courts, thinking it to be perhaps a summons or a notice, only to see that he had moved on from them and their family. That was going to piss his folks off and he only regrets that he can’t see it. 

After the judge finishes the last document, he gives the two of them a warm smile and gathers up all the paperwork that the Merchant had brought. “Congratulations, you two. I wish you fair winds out there in Fodlan.”  
  
There’s a round of muted, polite claps as the judge stands and returns to the bench with all the paperwork the Merchant had brought. Miklan and the Merchant stand and leave the well, and even though there’s a lot of eyes on them, Miklan isn’t uncomfortable at all. As soon as they leave the room, he looks over towards the note down in his hand, then back towards the Merchant.

“So it’s done?”  
  
“It’s done,” She smiles. “On paper, you’re now my kin. My son.”

Her son. Miklan tests that knowledge in his mind, finding that the thought isn’t strange or foreign. It… it’s nice. “Ah, shit, does that mean I _ actually _ have to call you ma now?”  
  
The Merchant laughs, opening the front door of the courthouse for him. The sunlight is warm against their skin compared to the slight chill of the autumn air. “No, no, whatever you want is fine. I don’t expect a sudden change in personality and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. This was just the legal aspect of it. We are still the same.”

Still the same… Miklan takes in a deep breath of the salty-sweet air, the wyverns crying overhead. Everything was the same, and yet, things seemed so different now too. But it wasn’t bad-- it was a change he could take. A change he welcomed. 

Miklan reaches up to his hair and pulls out the ribbon he had tied his ponytail up with. Felix had shoved it in his hand moments before he and the Merchant had left Fraldarius Manor, and it had taken him days to really look at it again. But now, the light blue ribbon glimmers in the sunlight, one of the many ribbons that Glenn used to tie his hair up with.

“You think Glenn’s laughing at us up in Heaven?” Miklan muses, half to himself, and half to the Merchant. 

“I think so.” She replies softly. “I’d wager he’s happy.”

“Miklan! Miss Merchant!”  
  
Miklan’s pulled out of his thoughts by someone calling for them at the base of the courthouse stairs. There’s Ryker, holding a bouquet of flowers as big as his head, and Milo’s there too, looking half embarrassed by Ryker’s waving. “Congratulations, you two! Come down here! I booked us a table at a really nice restaurant to celebrate!”  
  
“You _ what _?” Miklan yells down the stairs. He told them that this was just a really simple legal thing, nothing to celebrate about...

“I know that you said you didn’t want us to make a big deal out of it, but--”  
  
“You know Ryker,” Milo sighs, rolling his eyes. “He wanted to do something nice. Now get down here, we’re going to be late and if we miss our slot it’s gonna be your fault for taking forever!”

Miklan reaches back behind him and ties his hair back up with Glenn’s blue ribbon, the ribbon shining softly amidst his fluffy mop of orange hair. It probably looks quite out of place, but he doesn’t care. This ribbon, and the carved spear he gave Glenn at the royal market, still in its leather sheath under his bed, were the pieces of Glenn he would keep alive in his memory. 

And Glenn would be happy at this turnabout. He would.

He repeats his new name one more time under his breath. Miklan Anschutz Lethy Soros. A bit of a mouthful, but it has a nice ring to it. 

The Merchant chuckles, and offers Miklan a hand to take. “Let’s not keep them waiting, yeah?”  
  
Miklan sighs, looks towards the horizon one last time, and takes the Merchant’s hand, warm and secure, into his own. “Yeah. Don’t trip over your skirts, because if you go down, I’m letting you fall.”

“What a kind and caring son!”  
  
“Hey, you said--!”

The Merchant laughs, and the sound is warm, tingling against his skin. And it’s a sound he wants to protect for as long as he can. 

:-:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, credit for the wonderful sketch to @Valesti_ on twitter. Please hit him up, he's open for commissions and he's so super sweet and talented <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the holidays and the fact that I have a church to run thanks to my boss being sick, Heartlines WILL NOT be updating next week. See you all again Jan 3rd!
> 
> Twitter: @dedizenoflight  
reddit: @spedira

_ An _ _ d it's my whole heart, while tried and tested, it's mine, and it's my whole heart, trying to bleach it out, and it's my whole heart, burned but not buried this time… _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1176  
_ _ Red Wolf Moon, Day 2 _

_ Derdriu, Leicester Alliance _

Miklan bites his tongue, his right arm lodged halfway under the rotten walkway leading from the docks to the sandy beach below. He’s sure that half the merchant vendors are staring at him, but he doesn’t care. “C’mon,” He calls down through the wood, a dried fish clutched in his hand. “C’mon, Small Fry, I really should have been home about an hour ago, but I’m not leaving without you!”

The one eyed white cat stares at up at him as if he were stupid. Which might be true, given how long he’s been trying to coax him out from under the walkway… but they were leaving Derdriu today and likely wouldn’t be back for a while, and Miklan didn’t want to risk Small Fry either being killed or adopted into another family. 

It had taken a lot of asking on his part, but the Merchant finally said that if he could catch him, he could come, and he _ damn _well wanted to catch him.

But the cat doesn’t seem too keen on going anywhere. He lays down on his side in the warm sand and closes his eyes, and if he wasn’t so damn cute, Miklan would swear. Okay, so… Plan B. Time to crawl under the walkway his damn self and fish him out the hard way.

Of course, the beams supporting the walkway prove tight and difficult to navigate around, and by the time Miklan crawls his way over to Small Fry, he’s contorted into a strange, very uncomfortable position. But he can finally give him the fish, and as soon as Small Fry bites down on the fish’s head, Miklan pulls the fish by the tail and pulls the cat out with it. 

Small Fry allows Miklan to lay him on his back in the crook of his arm, too busy kicking the fish to death with his back paws. Miklan smiles a little; now all he had to do was get a collar around his neck, and then train him to stay within the wagon while they were moving. Maybe he could fashion some kind of harness out of some leather scraps, he had gotten pretty handy with the leather tools…

The hitched wagon is waiting for him when he turns onto his familiar street, the Merchant perched in the wagon seat and still shaking hands with a tearful Ryker. Milo’s already in the house, leaning out what used to be his window and yelling at Ryker to let the woman go already. 

The Merchant’s saying something, maybe something with his name sprinkled in there when she catches sight of him, relief fluttering across her face.  
  
“There you are!” She exclaims. “I thought I was going to have to send Ryker after you! Did you get your cat?”  
  
“Sure did.” Miklan holds said cat up, the cat too busy tearing into his fish to notice. “Is the leather scrap bag somewhere where I can reach it?”  
  
“It’s in the barrel with all the rope and tarp-- now hurry up and get in here! We should have been gone an hour ago.”

“I know, ma, I know,” Miklan replies, the words dripping with sarcasm. He pulls himself into the bed of the wagon, Small Fry still tucked into an arm, his free hand reaching into the barrel and fiddling around for a few pieces of leather. “I’ll be fine back here for a while, I just want to get him settled.”  
  
The Merchant sighs, but reaches out to give Ryker one last hug. “Take care, you hear? Make sure that Milo doesn’t tear up my vanity.” 

With a great sniff, the older man nods, wiping the snot from his face. “We’ll take good care of the house. You two be safe, you hear? May the Goddess keep watch over you!”  
  
“Bye!” Milo calls from the window, waving as the Merchant flicks the horses’ reins. Darian and Tobias pull forward, and the wagon wheels begin to spin. “Don’t do something stupid like get robbed!”

Miklan looks out from the back of the wagon cover, and notes that that’s the first time he’s ever seen Milo smile. Before long, that smile disappears back behind his window, and Ryker vanishes inside of their house, and he hopes that those two are still in Derdriu when they return. He’d actually really grown to like them…

For an hour, Miklan sits on one of the ration boxes and makes a harness for Small Fry, who seems content to lay in the rope barrel with the remnants of his fish. It fits well enough, and he fashions a loop on the back of it so he can attach a cord if he _ really _needed the cat to stay in in one place. Small Fry doesn’t seem to know what to do once the harness is on, so Miklan closes him up in the rope barrel for now-- after making sure that the barrel lid has holes. 

Derdriu’s a small group of buildings and a tiny port of ships by the time Miklan joins the Merchant up in the seat, looking back towards the sea. Now that the seagulls aren’t drowning out every single noise in the city, Miklan can hear the calling of the wyverns that lagged behind in the main migration up in the sky. A small group of them, dark colored and speckled with white, soar down from the clouds, settling down in a shoal to rest for the day. Come night, they’ll likely take off again and keep going towards the Adrestian Empire, and join all the other wyverns that have already settled there.

“Think Enbarr’s eyries are bursting at the seams?” Miklan asks the Merchant, remembering the winters down in the city. The old churches and factories down near the riverside had been transformed into winter nests for the great beasts, and on days where Miklan would walk down there to gather deliveries, he could hear them shuffling around within the stone walls-- and smell them too.

“Oh, likely. It’s a good season to collect the eggs they’ll lay too.” The Merchant flicks the reins again and adjusts their trajectory a little. “The army will spend all spring hand-rearing those chicks so they’ll be ready to fly in the summer.”  
  
“They have wyverns in your old country?”

“Yes, many. The sister after me was very fond of flying, but the other two siblings preferred to keep their feet on the ground. And so did I.”

“So I won’t be seeing you sailing around on a pegasus or a dragon any time soon?”  
  
The Merchant looks green just thinking about it. “Goddess, absolutely not. I’d pass out and fall out of the saddle and kill myself.”

Miklan snorts. “Imagine that! You live a long life just to die by falling out of a saddle!”

The Merchant snorts herself, reaching over to pinch him for his cheekiness. “Alright, enough out of you. You might want to bundle up since those clouds up ahead look ready to drop some snow.”

Sure enough, once they’re far enough out of Derdriu and away from the wind from the ocean, the sky begins to drop snow, so soft and fine it’s almost like the crystal-white castor sugar that they use down in the bakeries. Miklan reaches into the wagon and pulls his fur-trimmed black coat out, pulling it on and tugging the hood over his ears. The weather has been steadily chilling for the past month, but this is the first time he’s seen snow this year…

Miklan reaches out and watches the snow melt on his open palm, forming into perfect, shining pearls of water. It was winter the last time he and the Merchant were out on the road like this… and a good few years since they traveled to sell, rather than traveling to move house. Miklan’s actually a little excited, deep down; it’d be nice to get to see more of the country and to not be sitting on his rear all the time. 

The Merchant raises her fawn-fur trimmed hood, shielding her face from view. All Miklan can see is the soft, white clouds of her breath as they continue down the path and towards Daphael Territory. Everything is soft and quiet, but the air between them isn’t tense. Not anymore.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1177  
Great Tree Moon, Day 18 _

_ Gloucester County _

“Miklan! Miklan, up, _ now! _”

Miklan is startled awake by the sound of the Merchant’s voice, quickly sitting up and smacking his forehead against the edge of the chest he was coiled up next to. Small Fry leaps from his lap and quickly scurries into a barrel, hiding amongst the coils of rope and tarps. “Wh--”

The Merchant’s face appears at the lip of the wagon cover, tight with apprehension. “There’s an overturned convoy up ahead.”

If he wasn’t awake from the smack, the words ‘overturned convoy’ wake Miklan right up. He reaches for his lance, its carved metal blade glinting in the sunset light. “Bandits?”

“No, I don’t think so. For something to tear through a convoy of that size, it’d have to be big…”

Miklan wastes no time in closing Small Fry up in his barrel, crawling through the front of the wagon cover to slide into the seat. The Merchant’s hands are humming with a low, quiet energy, but for now, she seems focused on trying to keep the spooked horses calm, driving them off the path and into a nearby clearing. She dismounts and soothes the scared beasts, stroking the grey spots on Darian’s white face.

“Whatever it was is gone now, I think the horses are just still scared by the smell.” The Merchant says, sniffing the air. Her face wrinkles, and Miklan can smell the heavy, salty scent of blood, carried towards them by the breeze. He grimaces; they probably weren’t going to find anybody alive in there. 

The Merchant ties the horses off on a nearby branch, and after arming herself, the two of them pick their way down the path and down to the carnage. There’s two merchant wagons, one carriage with all of its doors ripped clean off, and a whole lot of dead guards missing their horses. The ground is churned up from the chaos, skid marks and what looks like claw marks tearing the earth into muddy chunks. Miklan shudders at the carnage, and quickly goes about trying to see if he can’t find anybody alive.

While the Merchant crawls into the overturned carriage, Miklan heads over to one of the broken merchanting wagons. This doesn’t seem like a theft, since all their chests and barrels are still mostly intact… the worst of the wrecked goods that he finds is a chest of linen chemise that looks like it’s been _ smashed _rather than ransacked, like something huge stepped on it. But all the jewelry is still in their boxes, all the lace is still wrapped up in their ribbons… 

It doesn’t take long to find the merchants that the goods belong to. There’s a portly brunette woman coiled up underneath the snapped yoke, and a blonde man just a few feet away. Miklan checks for any signs of life, and finds none, as he expected. “Hey!” He calls back to the Merchant, wiping his now bloody hand off on his blouse. “Have you found anybody alive?”  
  
“No!” The Merchant calls back, her voice echoing inside of the wrecked carriage. “I’m--”  
  
Her sentence is cut off by a loud snap, the splintering of wood, the Merchant crying out. Miklan quickly scrambles over to the carriage, falling to his knees and looking inside the dark space. “Hey-- Hey, are you okay?!”

“Yeah,” The Merchant groans, Miklan finding her lodged uncomfortably underneath the velveted seats. “Damn things fell while I was trying to get this guy out.” She grimaces, motioning to the prone form coiled just a few feet in front of her. “Think you can lift the seats while I--”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I got you.” Miklan quickly wriggles his torso through the ruined carriage frame, pushing up on the heavy seats while the Merchant slowly pulls the body out from the splintered vehicle. Once she’s out, she lays the body out on its back, an older man with dark hair, a long white streak standing out amidst the brown strands. She checks for a pulse, but when she doesn’t find one, she sighs as if expecting it. “Broke his neck. Poor bastard.”

Miklan blows out a breath, trying not to look at said poor bastard for longer than necessary. He doubts the people in the other wagon are alive either. “Looks like wolves found these guys.”

“Definitely, given how the horses reacted when they caught wind of the smell,” The Merchant replies, wiping her hands off on her maroon coat before she begins to pad the man’s clothing down, searching for any sign of identification. “The wagon behind us had all of its food missing, so I’m reckoning they came to sniff out their rations. Weird that they didn’t eat them while they were at it, though...”

She pads down on a pocket of the man’s fine black coat, unbuttoning the shell button and reaching in, withdrawing a wad of folded parchment. She sits back and quickly thumbs through the letters, Miklan making use of himself and tossing some tarps and blankets, scattered across the ground, over the bodies. He’s just finished covering up the merchant couple up front when the Merchant makes a strangled noise.

“Miklan, go get the wagon and bring it down here _ now. _ This is-- this isn’t good, this isn’t good at all...”  
  
Miklan wants to ask what she’s found, but her tone is so urgent that he saves his questions, going and getting the horses and the wagon from uphill. The Merchant’s shoved the letters back into the man’s pocket and is grabbing a tarp, quickly wrapping the body up and tying it all together with some rope by the time he gets down there again.

“Come help me get him into the wagon. We have to get him over to Gloucester Manor.”

“Why on earth are we doing that??” Miklan asks incredulously, still coming back to help take hold of the body. The man has long gone cold, so it’s almost like moving a very heavy sack of vegetables-- if he can just imagine it as that, and not a body. “Who is this guy?”

“Lord Godfrey Riegan, the son of Duke Riegan.”

Miklan almost drops the body right on his foot. A coldness seeps into his veins, looking down at the wrapped up corpse of the only surviving heir to House Riegan, who was probably quite surprised when he woke up next to the Goddess. 

“What the hell is he doing out here??”

“Looking at art. Those merchants over there were going to help him price the pieces at Gloucester Manor-- which is why we have to head over there.” 

With a strained noise, the Merchant gets Godfrey’s body into the floor of the wagon, Miklan helping her tuck him against their chests and barrels. She covers the body up with another blanket, and quickly motions for Miklan to get into the seat.

“We need to do something about the merchants,” Miklan frowns as he pulls himself up next to her. “Take them home or bury them or something…”

“We will,” The Merchant promises. “We’ll come back soon. But we have to get Godfrey to Count Gloucester so he can get him home to Derdriu. Goddess, what a mess…! Godfrey was Duke Riegan’s only heir…”

Gloucester Manor wasn’t terribly far away, only an hour’s ride towards the mountains, but Miklan still feels bad as they ride away from the carnage of the convoy. He quietly prays to the Goddess that nobody else travels along that route, so the bodies aren’t pilfered by thieves or other animals. He looks back into the wagon, towards Godfrey’s prone form, realizing that the body of the heir to the Alliance was just… in their wagon. How did these things always happen to them…?

It’s very hard to miss Gloucester Manor when they finally approach as the sun fully sets, seeing as how the whole property was surrounded by an eight foot tall iron fence, the front gates elaborately carved with blooming roses. The manor’s still a bit farther in and a little up the hill, twinkling with lights. When Miklan and the Merchant ride up to the gate, the guards there relax a little, which means they were expecting someone… but when they notice that they’re the only one, and there’s not a convoy with her, their faces tense up again. 

“Hold!” One calls, approaching the wagon. “What business do you have here at Gloucester?”

“Go get me your lord at once,” The Merchant breathes out, jabbing a thumb towards the wagon bed. “If he was expecting Lord Riegan and a few merchants by the name Kirsten, I’m afraid they’re all dead.”

“Dead--?!”

“An accident of some sort. I don’t know what. I have Lord Riegan in the back with me--”

The Merchant’s words come to a halt when the guard’s lance comes within an inch of her nose. Miklan quickly shoves the lance back, poising himself in front of the woman, staring the two guards head on.

“They’re dead, you say??” The guard repeats again, his shock wearing off, replaced with wary suspicion. “And you have the body?”

“You can go unwrap him in the back of my wagon if you so desire.” The Merchant replies evenly.

The guard eyes her even more. “And you just-- found them dead. In an accident.”

“Look, I had to find identification for this man. He has his letters in his pocket, left side, stating that he was coming here. The whole caravan was torn up by wolves. Do you want to keep arguing with me while his corpse gets colder and colder, or do you want to go get Count Gloucester so we can try and sort this mess out before the word gets out??”

The guards look at each other. Miklan keeps himself between the blades and the woman, his hand resting on the knife belted at his waist. The guards share a few words between each other, before one of them looks back to them. “Don’t move a muscle. I will go fetch Count Gloucester.”

While he rides inside to go fetch the count, the other guard keeps his lance pointed at them, ready to jab at them should they move. Within a few minutes, the sound of horse hooves churning up the path thunder towards them, the guards moving to quickly open the gate. Miklan doesn’t relax and doesn’t put his arm down-- not yet. 

It’s easy to recognize Count Gloucester, seeing as how he was the one who got that atrocious asymmetrical hair trend going a few years back, his bangs sliced in a perfect diagonal across his forehead. The rest of his hair is pulled up in a braid, and his doublet is a deep, rich violet, embroidered with hundreds of tiny blooming red roses. His beard and mustache are neatly trimmed, and Miklan has to admit, if it weren’t for the stupid bangs, Count Gloucester would be a truly handsome man.

But his eyes are cold like flint, steely and calculating as he rides up on his dappled white pony. The Merchant inclines her head in greeting, and so does Miklan, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of him, not while he’s looking at them like that. Count Gloucester skillfully dismounts with the help of a guard, looking over their wagon as if wishing it were a little less dirty.  
  
“So I hear that there’s been an accident.” Count Gloucester speaks, his voice smooth and elegant. He is high-bred stuff for sure, Miklan thinks, but there’s something… very strange about the way he’s looking at them. “Is that right?”  
  
“Sir,” The Merchant replies, twisting in her seat to begin to pull back the wagon cover. “My son and I came across a convoy that had been torn apart by wolves. There were no survivors, including the son of Duke Riegan.”  
  
“And you’re certain?” Gloucester raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. It’s as if he’s testing them, trying to make sure that that’s what they _ truly _ saw, and Miklan’s not sure why. Does he think that they had something to do with it? “You’re _ positive _that it was wolves?”

“I can’t think of anything else it would have been, sir.” The Merchant admits. “All the food rations were torn into, and judging by how broken down everything was, there’s no way it was humans.”

“Mmn.” Count Gloucestor motions for two guards to get into the wagon bed once the Merchant pulls back the cover. “Pull back the tarp. See as if it is as she says.”  
  
Two of the guards do as commanded, pulling back the blanket and undoing the ropes holding the tarp around the body. With careful hands, they pull the woven material back, showing the grey face of the corpse. Gloucester pulls in a sharp breath, putting the back of his hand to his mouth as if to swallow back bile. He stares at the corpse, though, with an odd keenness, purple eyes scrutinizing the body.

“A shame,” He finally says. “Godfrey was a… good man. We will take him from here and ensure he makes it back to Derdriu.”

The body is wrapped back up and taken out of the wagon bed, carried off towards one of the horses. Gloucester remounts his horse and reaches into a pocket, tossing something towards Miklan and the Merchant. Miklan catches it, the sting of metal cold against his gloved palm. “You have my thanks for bringing Lord Godfrey here. You may go now.”

“_ You may go now _,” Miklan mocks under his breath as they ride away with Godfrey’s body, the iron gates slamming shut behind them. He opens his palm to find a one thousand gold piece glimmering in his hand, just as cold as Gloucester’s eyes. “One thousand gold for the heir to the Alliance’s body. What a fucking joke!”

The Merchant doesn’t reply right away, turning their wagon around and setting back towards the scene of the incident. As soon as the glimmering of Gloucester Manor disappears behind the trees, she relaxes a little bit, looking over her shoulder. “That was… odd.”  
  
“I’ll say! First he acted like we might have done something, but then just took the body and told us to shoo like we were rats!” 

Miklan humphs, looking down at the coin in his hand. It feels almost dirty, like some sort of blood money. “He didn’t even ask about the other merchants that died, either.” 

“Likely not what’s on his mind,” The Merchant murmurs. “He was probably just thinking about Lord Godfrey. Still, though… they took the corpse without much explanation and without a lot of questions. And the way he acted, it was like he… wasn’t surprised?”

So Miklan hadn’t imagined that after all. He’d think any of the Roundtable worth their salt would freak out upon being presented with the heir to the country’s body. But Gloucester had seemed oddly collected and cool about it. Perhaps he was just made of tougher stuff than the others, but… Miklan doubted that was it. 

When they return to the scene of the accident, the rest of the bodies have remained untouched. Miklan lights up their lanterns and they begin the grisly work of wrapping up all the bodies, one by one. They bury the guards and the other merchants, who have no identifying papers or goods, but for the Kirstens, they stop to consult their map to see how far away their little village was. If at all possible, returning the bodies would be best. 

“So we’re here,” The Merchant points out on the map, illuminated in the lantern’s orange light. “These two are from a village called Dorset, which is… ah, it’s not too far from here.” Her finger glides up the map, a little closer to Derdriu. “A day’s journey. I think we can manage that.” 

“Shouldn’t be hard to find their family,” Miklan can’t help but muse, looking back at the neatly wrapped bodies now resting in their wagon bed. “Hopefully.” 

They pick through the wreckage and pack up all of the Kirsten’s surviving goods to return to the family. It’s very dark by the time the last barrel gets carefully positioned in, everything poised delicately around the bodies. Miklan undoes the top of Small Fry’s barrel, but the cat remains asleep-- and unwilling to come out while the stench of death permeates all their goods. All that’s left is to wash the blood off of their hands and faces and change clothes, and then they’re off again, hoping to get to Dorset before the ground can get any muddier from the remnants of winter snow.

A few hours pass by quietly and without event. The Merchant’s head is hanging a little, the woman half asleep when Miklan reaches over and takes the reins from her. “Sleep,” He says to her. “I can drive us through the night.”

“You sure?”  
  
“Positive.”

The Merchant rests her head against his shoulder, and falls asleep within a few moments, her weight slumping against his side. Miklan adjusts his shoulder so she won’t slip, and presses the horses onwards through the night. The moon was bright, and so were the stars, despite the tragedy that had occurred, and he knows he can find his way.

Miklan doesn’t know what’ll become of the Alliance now. All they can really do is just hope that either Godfrey’s long lost sister returns, or the current Duke finds another heir. And all of that was well beyond him now; right now, they had to get these two home.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1177  
_ _ Great Tree Moon, Day 20 _

_ The farming village of Dorset, Leicester Alliance _

The Kirstens are laid to rest at the little church that stands tall above Dorset, their graves in the cemetery cloaked with candles and wildflowers pulled from the fields. Miklan and the Merchant managed to find their children quickly once they got to Dorset, a little brunette named Maya and her towering older brother Raphael, who’s infinitely grateful that they brought them home. 

“You’ve done such a kind thing for us,” He hiccups at their grave sides, a hand resting on Maya’s back. “I can’t even begin to thank you for bringing them home.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Miklan tries to be reassuring, still so clumsy and shaky in the way of comfort. Even though he didn’t know these people, the familiar sting of grief at the sight of so many wailing people has wormed its way into his mind. “We’re just glad we were able to get them home to you. You and your sis going to be okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Raphael sniffs, wiping his nose on his torn sleeve. “I know my way around the shop. I can get business taken care of no problem… Let me and Maya pay you back for bringing Ma and Pa home. It’s the least we can do.”

“Absolutely not,” Miklan pushes Raphael’s hand back, laden with gold, when it’s offered to him. “You keep that to take care of your sister. We have enough money.”  
  
Raphael looks like he wants to protest, but another well-wisher comes over, giving him and Maya a hug. Miklan uses that time to escape the throng of people, making his way back to the Merchant. “Think we should get going?” He murmurs to her. 

“Soon.” She says, looking the two graves over. “I think spending a few days here to replenish our supplies would be good. And… we should wait for things in Derdriu to calm down.”  
  
The news about Lord Godfrey Riegan had gotten out just before the two of them made it to Dorset. It was actually the reason they were able to find Raphael and Maya, since the two of them were begging the wyvern-riding page for any information about their parents, who had gone with Duke Riegan when he rolled through town a few days ago. Traveling around with the news running rampant probably wasn’t the best of ideas right now.

Like last year, with the death of a royal figure, Miklan and the Merchant find a tavern to hunker down in, and they wait for things to blow over. For now, the funerals for the Kirstens seems to be keeping the town busy, and despite the fact that his face is still stained with tears, Raphael stops by to see them again later that day.

“At least come by for a meal,” Raphael insists, his nails still caked with graveside dirt. “I’d feel bad if you had to pay for food while we have so much at home.”

“Your parents just _ died _.” Miklan retorts, absolutely astounded that the kid was still trying to give them things despite everything. “We should be the last thing on your mind. We’re not even going to be here for long, just--”

Raphael raises a hand, not wanting to hear a word more. “You brought Ma and Pa home when you could have just turned the other way or buried them in the field. We have a hot fire at home and a spare room. You’re not gonna pay a single cent if I can help it.”

So he drags them home, with both of them protesting the whole way, pushing his heavy front door open and illuminating the darkening skies with the warm light within. “Maya! Get washed up for dinner, we have guests!” 

Raphael’s a trooper, Miklan notes. He wipes his tears and picks his sister up and sets her to work while bustling about the busy kitchen of their cozy little house, cooking enough chicken and stew for ten people. Despite the sniffle that comes out of him every now and again, he just keeps going, and perhaps that’s Raphael’s way of dealing with his grief. 

He serves dinner with a grin, tears through two chickens all by his lonesome and still piles all their plates high with food. Despite the darkness in his eyes, he still laughs, makes jokes, and even washes the dishes with a whistle. Miklan has no idea how he does it. It’s… kind of admirable, to be honest.

He was a wreck for weeks after Glenn died, but here this youth was, fresh after losing both his mother and father, not slowing down at all. Perhaps that’s what he and the Merchant should have done once they got home; kept busy. Raphael’s moving and moving and refusing to let the grief tear him apart.

After the meal, Raphael takes them upstairs and takes them down the hall, opening up a creaky door. “Hasn’t been used in a while,” Raphael muses, wiping some dust up from one of the dressers. “But this’ll serve you pretty well. There’s loads of blankets in the chests, and if you need anything, come and get me, ‘kay?”

“Again,” Miklan tries to stress. “You-- you’re being really generous to us, and we’re really grateful for it. But take a minute and have a rest, will you??” 

Raphael gives him a smile. With his front shadowed in the light of the open door, Miklan can see the dark rings under his eyes, the weariness in his shoulders. “Don’t worry, I will. You two sleep well!”

The youth disappears from the room and the door creaks closed behind him. The Merchant finds the candles on the nightstand and quietly brings a magical flame to her fingertip, lighting the withered wick up. “He’s hurting so much.” She murmurs to herself. “But he hides it so well.”

“Yeah,” Miklan sighs, sinking down onto the little bed crammed against the right wall. “Yeah. Poor guy. Guess he’s afraid of slowing down.”

“Stillness brings grief to the forefront of your mind.” The Merchant says, taking the other bed and slowly kicking her muddy boots off. “It’s why I always try to keep moving. Why I wanted to leave Derdriu.”

Miklan makes a noise, kicking off his own boots and coiling up on the bed. It’s creaky and every time he shifts, it makes a loud noise, but he’s not about to complain to their host about it. “Seems like everywhere we go, we somehow miraculously run into some kind of awful shit.”

“I’m afraid that with me, that’s something you’ll have to deal with.” The Merchant replies dryly, pulling herself underneath the warm fur draped over her bed.

“I have for the past seven years. It just-- it just seems like the whole continent is going to shit. Monsters are becoming a lot more widespread, it was never like this when I was a kid.”

When he was a little boy, wolves and beasts always stayed in the depths of the tangled woods, and in the darkest parts of the rivers, lakes and mountains. But these days, they seemed to be roaming out into the plains and onto well developed pathways where they once veered clear of. They once feared humans, but now they’ve gotten a taste for their blood.

The Merchant blows out the candle, the pale light of the moon and stars peeking in through the roughspun curtains. “Try and rest, Miklan. We’ll be gone again soon.”

Miklan tries to do as she says, but as the night goes on, even long after the Merchant falls asleep, he finds himself staring at the thatched ceiling, unable to get any sort of rest. It might be the fact he can feel all the slats of the bedframe through the thin mattress, but he’s just… 

There’s a creaking from down the hall, heavy footsteps thudding against the wood. Miklan strains his ears, trying to hear who the hell that might be. Who’d be up at this hour? Then, the door to the big room next to theirs slowly opens, the hinges squeaking just a little, and then the door closes again, the footsteps wandering further into the room.

Then, he hears it, the soft sounds of hiccuped sobs through the paper thin walls. There’s the creak of the bed slats sagging under the weight being put on them, and a few heaved breaths going into what must be a pillow. Miklan realizes that the room next to theirs must have belonged to Raphael and Maya’s parents.

The soft sobbing gets a little louder, undeniably male. Miklan swallows, and puts his face into his pillow.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1177  
Great Tree Moon, Day 26 _

Of course, as anybody could have predicted, Raphael loads their wagon up with goods when they’re due to leave, despite all their protesting. The Merchant begs, pleads, even offers a share of her purse to reimburse him, but he will have none of it.

“Don’t even think about it,” The youth brushes their concerns off, leaning against a crate Miklan’s attempting to push out of the wagon. He’s a brick wall, strong and tall, and Miklan’s in a sweat by the time he gives up. “If you won’t take money, I bet a few weeks of having full bellies will be payment enough.”

“Goddess, Raphael, are you kidding me?” Miklan pants, attempting to push the box one last time. “You refused to let us stay in an inn, and now this? This is half your kitchen!”

“Naw, that’s just a little share of our old winter stores. We’re glad to be rid of it!”

“Raphael, seriously--”

“It’s what Ma and Pa woulda done for anybody.” Raphael places one more bag of flour into the wagon bed, sighing and leaning against it. His eyes are a little misty, and he absently wipes at them with a sleeve. “I want to be as big and as giving as them and keep that legacy goin’. So I’m promising you, this really is fine.”  
  
Miklan finds that he cannot argue with that. After listening to the poor lad quietly sob at night so his little sister wouldn’t hear it, he supposes this was another way to bear his grief. 

While the two of them are busy, Maya returns from the house with Small Fry in her arms, passing the cat up to the Merchant in the wagon seat. “Thanks for letting me play with him,” Her voice is soft, still worn from grief, but she seems happier than she had been when they arrived into town.

“Of course.” The Merchant smiles softly at the little girl, leaning over and gently ruffling the girl’s hair. She passes her a small bag, and holds a finger to her lips. “Put that away in your stores and don’t tell your brother ‘til we’re long gone, okay?” 

Maya slips the bag into her dress pocket, the gold coins inside gently clinking within the fabric folds. She doesn’t reply, but she does smile, taking a step back and taking Raphael’s hand as he finishes tying off their goods.  
  
“Alright, you’re good to go!” Raphael says, lowering the wagon cover. Miklan slides out from the wagon bed and makes sure to give the youth a handshake and a good pat on the shoulder. 

“You two take care,” Miklan replies. “Keep your sister close at hand, you hear? She’s gonna grow up soon and you’ll have to fight off all the men.”

Raphael shakes with a hearty laugh, picking his little sister up and placing her on his hip as if she weighed no more than a bundle of hay. “I sure have my work cut out for me, don’t I? Be careful on the road!”

He and Maya wave goodbye to them from the hilltop as they leave Dorset, their wagon aiming for Goneril Territory. Mountain air will be good for them, the Merchant’s quietly muttering to herself as they leave. Fodlan’s Throat would be a good change of scenery… Or maybe even the Oghma Mountains...

Miklan stays quiet as they leave town. He’s sensed it ever since they left Derdriu, this… this weird feeling. The air has changed, an odd, lingering tension despite the lush, lovely farm fields and the green waves of flowers. The whole country just seems on edge. Losing their heir was bound to do that, but there was just-- something different about this. It seems like the whole continent is holding its breath. Waiting. 

Waiting for _ something _.

“We’re gonna be okay.” Miklan suddenly says out loud. He looks over towards the Merchant, who’s looking back at him, blinking. “We’re gonna be fine.”

“Of course we are,” The white haired woman replies, bewildered by the sudden outburst. “What brought that on?” 

“I just-- I have a feeling that things are just going to get harder from here. Not just in the Alliance, but… all of Fodlan.” 

The sentiment is a fear that’s been on his mind for a while now, ever since they left Derdriu. Fhirdiad was still in shreds from the death of the royal family, with talk of rebellion in the west-- Princess Edelgard had only _ just _resurfaced in Enbarr, but she seems frail and broken, her hair brittle and white. And there’s even talks of the Churches outside of Garreg Mach getting ready to rebel as well.

The whole country seems to just be going to hell in a handbasket, and Miklan has a good feeling that the road is just going to get more and more dangerous. It just meant he’d have to be diligent. He stretches out and leans against the frame of the wagon cover, looking up towards the soft blue sky. 

“But we’re going to be okay, no matter what life chucks at us.” Miklan speaks it with a kind of finality, as if he could will it into being just by speaking it. After all the garbage that’s been happening, he isn’t sure if he could take suddenly losing everything, like poor Raphael. Like Felix. Like Dimitri. Like Dedue…

The Merchant blinks again, but her gaze softens after a few more moments. That ancient melancholy seems to lift, if only for a few minutes. “Yes… we’ll be fine. Just as long as you don’t take us for a joyride on our way to the mountains.”

“Shit, there goes my plan!”

She smiles a little, and looks back towards the path, winding and twisting through the rainbow waves of wildflowers. “We can endure whatever comes our way. Just… stand by me until then, okay?”

Miklan manages a smile up to the woman. In the eyes of the law, his mother. “You signed the papers, so you’re stuck with me.”

Small Fry crawls up from the wagon bed and coils between them, whiskers red from the juicy rat he caught before they left town. Miklan rests a hand on the cat’s side, and he watches as they and all their goods disappear into the rolling green fields, the wind tousling the wagon softly.

Something was coming. But no matter what it was, he’d be ready for it. They’d be ready.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about not updating on the 3rd; I got super sick over New Years (drank too much and got really sick, rip) and it's taken a while for my brain to get back in order. I also suffered a bit from writer's block so this chapter isn't my best or longest... but with this chapter we're almost to the point we're all waiting for!! It's coming!! 
> 
> twitter: @dedizenoflight  
Speedy's reddit: @spedira

_ 'Cause it's burning through the bloodline, it's cutting down the family tree, growing in the landscape, darling, in between you and me… _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1178 _ _   
_ _ Harpstring Moon, Day 31 _

_ Oghma Mountains, Fodlan _

_ ‘Miss Merchant, Miklan, _

_ Forgive my incessant letter writing, but I fear that if I stand still for too long, I will be swept away and overtaken by all that has happened in the past year and a half. Even now, the grief still haunts me, and you are the only people I have left, save for His Highness. Like you, forcing myself to keep walking is the only way I can keep going. _

_ I cannot begin to thank you enough for sending the blanket Mother gave you all those years ago to me. I have nothing from Duscur, everything burnt to ash, but it pleases me to know that something of my old life survived thanks to your travelling. I will cherish the gift forever. I wish I could thank you in person, but... _

_ I do not know where your travels will take you next, but heed this; stay away from Faerghus. I ask this only for your own safety. It is bad enough for me, even with His Highness’ piercing gaze; I cannot imagine what might happen if you step foot back in this country. I do not want to see either of you in the stocks in Fhirdiad-- or worse yet, down in the galleys.  _

_ Times grow turbulent. His Highness is readying to squash a rebellion growing in the west. What the rebellion is about, I do not know, nor am I privy to such details. That friend of yours, Felix Fraldarius-- I am seeing he and his father in these halls more often. Felix is a squire for one of His Highness’s knights, so he likely will be accompanying us. I will be busy with His Highness, but I will at least make sure he is okay while we are out in the field. _

_ I long to see you two again. Our time at Fraldarius Manor was heavy with grief and we were unable to say proper goodbyes. If you happen to be near Garreg Mach Monastery in two years time, though, we might be able to see each other there… His Highness will be going there to finish his studies, and I shall be accompanying him. If the Goddess of Fodlan is willing, perhaps we will cross paths in much better circumstances. _

_ Take care and be careful out on the road. The paths across Fodlan are treacherous and I fear every day that I will receive a letter saying that you have perished. I will write again when we are finished in the west. _

_ May the earth, the sea, and the sky carry you on fair winds and waters. _

_ Dedue Molinaro’ _

Miklan carefully folds the letter in his hands up, tucking it back into the tiny chest that carried all of their correspondences from the past two years. He was starting to get antsy; it’d been a bit since the Merchant went into town, insisting that he need not come with her, but after reading that letter again, his stomach’s all twisted with apprehension. They could have just pulled into town and parked the cart somewhere, he didn’t know  _ why  _ she insisted that he wait out here with the horses...

Ah, wait, there’s the familiar maroon flash of her fur lined coat, coming up the path. Miklan sits up in the wagon seat and watches the woman crest the hill, her white hair fluttering in the breeze. His gut twists even more, though, when he sees a red streak going down her forehead, dripping down her right eye and cheek. 

Miklan scurries out of the wagon and meets her halfway down the hill. “What the hell happened?” He demands to know, a finger reaching up and touching the offending gash on her forehead. It’s a decent sized cut, surrounded by flesh that’s deepening in color with a nasty bruise. “Who hit you?”

“Some cranky woman with a rock.” The Merchant replies as if it were no big deal, but she hisses when his fingers make contact with the wound. 

Miklan swears under his breath and pats down his pockets, feeling around for his handkerchief, his remnant from Glenn. When he finds it, he licks a corner and gingerly starts to wipe the blood off of her face. “Tell me who it was and I’ll rough them up for you.”

“You’ll do no such thing, because it’ll just affirm whatever their beliefs are even more.” The Merchant bites her lip as he pokes around the cut, a fresh line of blood threatening to dribble into her eye. “It’s not so bad, Miklan, it’s nothing a spell can’t close…” 

“But you still got hurt.” Miklan’s throat is tight as he finishes wiping the blood off of the woman’s face. “Someone hurt you because of the way you look. I should have been there with you!”

“It doesn’t matter now, Miklan. I’m alright. But I doubt we will find shelter here tonight.”

“We won’t find shelter  _ anywhere _ .”

The Merchant is silent, and Miklan hates it. 

It had started back in 1176, after the Tragedy of Duscur; out in the Alliance, it had crept in slowly. People giving them odd looks. The Merchant suddenly not being able to contact some of her fellow merchants. People constantly asking Miklan why he was with  _ her _ . 

The closer they got to Faerghus, the animosity suddenly shot up tenfold. The last village they had wandered into had many Faerghus born citizens there, and they did just about everything but chase them out of town. They showed their animosity in other ways; the inn was suddenly full, the tavern was out of beer and food, and no shopkeeper would take coins tainted by the Merchant’s hands. 

Miklan finishes wiping the blood from the Merchant’s face, and she lays a gloved hand over the wound. Muttering a spell under her breath, the skin and muscle re-knit, and the cut seals itself up with naught more than a scar. But she looks exhausted by the time she’s done, Miklan wrapping an arm around her shoulder and leading her back to their wagon. “Want me to drive?” He asks.   
  
“No,” The Merchant murmurs softly, pulling herself into her seat. “I know where I want to take us for the night. I should be the one driving for that.”

Miklan grumbles, but acquiesces and climbs into his side of the wagon. The Merchant flicks the horses’ reins and they set off again, leaving the village behind them. Night will be falling in a few hours, and it was bitterly cold up here in the mountains, so Miklan hopes they get to wherever the Merchant is thinking of soon. And hopefully it isn’t another town where they’ll be attacked…

But she seems to be guiding them farther and farther out of civilization, and deeper into the mountains. The paths, while wide, are treacherous and they tower high above cliffsides and valleys, and looking over the edge of the path makes Miklan’s stomach hurt. He wouldn’t want to be out here in winter for love or money. With a steady hand, the Merchant guides them farther into the towering cliffs, her red eyes trained ahead to some unseen location.

Something strikes Miklan as they go further in. This place… it’s  _ familiar  _ to him. In some distant memory, perhaps when he was very small, Miklan has been on these paths before. And it’s all but confirmed when he sees a crumbling arch in the distance, carved into the very mountain wall and covered in worn down mosaics.

“Wait,” Miklan says, looking over at the woman. “This is-- This is the Red Canyon!”

“Indeed it is,” The Merchant replies, eyes cast towards the brilliant designs on the earth's surface. “This is the only place I could think of where we might have some peace for a few days.”

Miklan looks forward again, mouth agape. That would explain why the place felt familiar; it was the duty of every man and woman in Fodlan to make a pilgrimage to the Red Canyon at some point in their lives, since this was the first place the Goddess stepped foot in when She descended to Fodlan. It was here that She made Her home, it was here that She returned to the heavens from, and it was here that She gave life to Fodlan.

His folks made the pilgrimage when he was just four, so that explained why he didn’t really remember the place until now. He most certainly ever thought he’d be coming back here again in his adult life... 

As they pass under the arch, Miklan reaches out and touches the mosaics in wonder, like a child given new knowledge of the world. It makes sense that the Merchant would want to retreat here; unless sanctioned by the Church, acts of violence in the Red Canyon were punishable by death due to its holiness. Even if there  _ were  _ other angry Faerghus citizens here, they would be safe. 

They come into a large clearing, carved out of the stone, ancient pillars from a time long before theirs towering overhead. The ruins of the cities of the Red Canyon were further inside, but it looked like this was where most pilgrims made their camps. The Merchant tries to stay away from the larger groups of pilgrims, red eyes searching for an isolated spot to camp.

There’s a rock overhanging outside of a few crumbling buildings that the Merchant decides will do, staking the wagon there. “We should sleep in shifts tonight. We shouldn’t grow complacent just because we’re in a holy place.”

“Aside from Garreg Mach, this is the holiest place in all of Fodlan,” Miklan says, still turning a few circles and taking the vast city ruins in. “You’d think people would have enough courtesy to  _ not  _ spill blood in Her home.”

“If I were anybody else, that would be true. But these are strange times, and stranger things have happened.”

Miklan looks back towards the ruins, longing to go inside. There were so many things he wanted to see; the cave that the Goddess had made Her sleeping hollow, a house that supposedly once hosted St. Cichol, the handprints of Her Children against the building walls. But at the same time, he’s loathe to leave the Merchant’s side after what happened earlier. She was right; these were strange times indeed.

The Merchant takes note of Miklan’s glances over his shoulder towards the city, and she chuckles a little. Staking the horses’ leads to a patch of thick grass, she walks past him, gesturing him to follow her. “Let’s go have a look while it’s quiet.”

Perhaps following a bit too quickly, Miklan quickly joins her side and marvels at the cobblestone paths that begin to take shape under their feet. He slides a glove off a hand and places his palm against the cool stone of a small dwelling, wondering who might have lived here when the Goddess resided in the city. A scribe? Maybe a mage? Merchants like them?

“It’s still so quiet here.” Miklan murmurs out loud. “Despite all the shit going on in Fodlan.”

The white haired woman nods, resting her own hand against the stone. “There’s still bits and pieces of Sothis here. Maybe not Her flesh, but Her memory.”

It feels almost like a dream, walking through the city ruins. There’s nobody else wandering the ruins but them, but Miklan can see bits and pieces of things left behind by other pilgrims. Rosaries, flowers, food offerings for the Goddess, strips of parchment that have been jammed into the cracks of walls. So many people were praying to Her and hoping for some kind of relief, but it just… hadn’t come yet.

They ascend a set of steep stairs carved into the mountain’s wall, a bit too steep for ordinary folks, so by the time they get up to the cavern overlooking the city, both Miklan and the Merchant are winded. But the cavern is magnificent to behold; beautiful white flowers grow all along the rim of the cavern’s mouth, swaying softly in the evening breeze. The moss around their feet glows softly, their footprints a white pathway that only glows brighter as the sun sets further. The back of the cave is lit up with eternally burning lanterns, illuminating an icon of the Goddess with her eyes spread out over a marble slab that’s laden down with flowers.    
  
It’s the surrounding walls that truly take Miklan’s attention, though-- hundreds of handprints lay stenciled in a variety of colors against the stone walls, the prints in remarkable shape, forever trapped in time. He can’t help himself; he approaches a wall and places his hand against one of the prints, noting just how much larger the hand was compared to his own. Who put their mark here? How long ago had it been? Did they know that their legacy would still be here, so far flung into the future?

Miklan pulls his hand away, shuddering at the implications. This hand had been here for… Goddess, over a thousand years now. It had endured rain and shine, wind and snow, battles and years and years of people, just like him, putting their hands on it and wondering just what kind of life the person who left the print had led. Centuries after their passing, they were still being thought of. 

The Merchant brushes up against his side, seemingly sensing his thoughts. She reaches out and touches the wall with the tips of her ungloved fingers, tracing the outline of someone’s little clawed hand. “I wonder,” She murmurs. “If people wonder about my country the same way. If they see the ruins of our cities and think ‘what kind of lives did these people live’? If maybe some old remnant of my past life is sitting in a museum or a university…”

Miklan watches her longingly lay her palm against the wall, overlapping a handprint. Unable to help himself, he reaches out and cages her hand with his. 

“You got something even better.” Miklan replies steadfastly. “You’re still here. You’re still making a legacy. And I guess I’m part of that now.”

The Merchant manages to laugh a little, leaning more up against his side. “Promise to tell whatever family you make only good things about me?”

“Nah, I’m gonna tell them about what a hardass you were.”

The Merchant laughs more, turning her palm up to take his hand, squeezing it. “And when you’re gone,” Her voice drops to something more quiet, solemn. “If I’m still alive, I’ll sing your praises to whoever will listen to me. I’ll be a poet in a renewed Fodlan, telling all about your story.”

“Do you anticipate on being alive that long?”   
  
“Goddess, I hope not.” Comes the small admission. “But if I am, that’s what I’ll do.” 

The two of them are quiet for a bit, standing there in the Goddess’s cave, looking at the legacy Her children had created until the sun finally sets the rest of the way. They pad out of the cave, their footsteps glowing white and then fading into nothingness, and they coil up in the safety of their wagon, surrounded by Sothis’s memory. 

The Merchant falls asleep quickly, as she always does, but Miklan remains awake for just a little bit. Enough to wonder what kind of legacy he’ll leave behind for his mother to tell. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's an consistant updating schedule? I don't know her...
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER! it's here! the beginning of main plot!! I'm so excited to finally get to this point and I hope you all are too! your support and love has carried me all the way here and I am forever grateful. thank you so much! <3
> 
> twitter: @dedizenoflight  
reddit: @spedira

_Mother, make me a big, tall tree, so I can shed my leaves and let it all blow through me..._

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1179  
_ _ Pegasus Moon, Day 12 _

_ The village of Cland, outside the walls of Garreg Mach Monastery _

“Attention!” The town crier calls across the village square, startling Miklan and the Merchant out of their meal. “We will now be announcing the winners of this year’s lottery for slots in Garreg Mach Monastery’s merchant halls!”

“Oh, shit, that’s us,” Miklan says, his mouth full of half-chewed bread and cheese. He swallows as quickly as he can, the Merchant quickly sweeping their half eaten meal into her bag. “How expensive were those applications again?”   
  
“More expensive than I care to admit.” His mother replies, closing her leather messenger bag and getting onto her feet. “Come on, let’s hurry over.”

The two of them, holding hands to avoid separation, squish their way through the growing crowd. There’s a few pokes and pinches here and there, but they manage to make it to the front in one piece, joining a small throng of excited merchants. This was the hot ticket of the year-- and there was a lot of competition.    
  
A familiar head of pink hair arrives, shoving another merchant out of the way to come stand on the Merchant’s side. “Nervous, Alie?” Anna teases.

“Not on your life.” The Merchant replies, red eyes focused steadfastly on the town crier.

There had been no end of excited shrieking and happy tears between the two women when they had reunited on the first day of their stay in Cland. Letters had always been exchanged, but the two had not seen each other in almost ten years-- and like the Merchant, Anna had barely aged a day, the only evidence of her age being the smile lines on her cheeks. Miklan had waited outside for the ruckus to stop, Small Fry curled up in his lap, and spent the better half of the night outside.

Anna, as always, had come sniffing out the golden coin that followed Fodlan’s royalty. Miklan had already known that Dimitri would be attending Garreg Mach starting in the 1180 term, but it was a surprise when he heard that Princess Edelgard, and even the new Leicester Alliance heir, Claude von Riegan, would be joining him. Sylvain was going to be there too, Miklan grimaces a bit-- but Felix would be too, if his foggy memory served him right. 

So many people he knew would be returning. The Merchant squeezes his hand, signaling to him that something was happening up on stage. Sure enough, a church official, a young lady with curled minty hair, has brought up the glass jar with dozens of names in it. The Merchant’s merchanting name, Lady Witch, was floating around in there somewhere… at least Miklan hopes. Could they have rigged it to where a Duscur-looking woman wouldn’t win? 

The drawing begins, the minty haired girl reaching into the jar and rummaging her hand around in it. She draws out a piece of paper, mint eyes scanning the name there. “Greta Ellestad?”   
  
There’s a cry from somewhere behind Miklan, a buff blonde woman pushing her way to the stage. “That’s me!”

“Congratulations!” The church official beams, presenting her with a little golden badge on a navy and gold ribbon. “Feel free to claim one of the merchant rooms tonight, and please report to Bishop Seteth’s office in a day’s time for briefing. Make sure you wear this at all times on property so we know you’re one of our merchants.”   
  
Greta scurries off, excitedly clutching the badge to her chest. Without delay, the official reaches back into the jar, pulling out another name.

“Anna… there’s-- no last name, it just says Anna…”

“Me!” Anna shoves past the Merchant, waving her arms. “Me me me! That’s me!”

The official looks around, waiting to see if there would be a protest or a challenge, but, when there is none, she passes Anna her badge and says the same thing. Anna returns to the crowd, elbowing the Merchant’s side. “Look at that! I’m gonna be bloody rich by the end of the year off of royal money!”   
  
Miklan rolls his eyes, and watches as the lottery continues. Three more names are pulled out of the five remaining slots, and he can’t help but feel more nervous as time goes on. “You think they would really snub you?” He whispers to his mother.   
  
“I don’t know,” The Merchant says, never taking her eyes off of the glass jar. “I can’t imagine the Church would dare. At least, I hope so. I-I mean, I don’t know the ins and outs of church politics--”   
  
Her words are cut off at the next name from the official’s lips. “Lady Witch? Do we have a Lady Witch here?”

“That’s my mom!” Miklan yells, forgetting himself and raising his mother’s arm above his head, much to her embarrassment. “She’s right here!”

The Merchant, flushed from both Miklan’s outburst and her own excitement, pulls her arm away and shuffles up to the stage, holding her hands out for the badge. The official smiles and gently lays it into her palm, and Miklan and Anna meet her on the other side of the stage, the three of them leaving the restless crowd.    
  
“How much did you bribe the Church to have them pick me?” The Merchant turns a critical eye towards Anna.

Anna raises her hands in innocent protest, her badge gleaming on her lapel. “None at all! Cross my heart and hope to die! You got in on the grace of the Church. Congrats, Alie!” 

The Merchant closes her fingers around the badge, holding it to her chest and letting out a sigh. “At last, we’ll have a place to rest our heads for more than a few days. I can sell my wares in peace, finally really start building my fortunes up again After the Tragedy, I swear that I almost went bankrupt. Thank the Goddess!”

She swivels a red eye towards her red-haired son. “And  _ you _ , mister, once we’re done celebrating, can start term with His Highness, Dedue and Felix in the Blue Lion house. You can start building a professional resume for future employees with a fresh start here at the Officer’s Academy.”

Miklan sputters. “Do  _ what  _ now? Me, attend the Officers Academy? Ma, are you still running off of the adrenaline high you got from that badge??”

The Merchant pins said shiny badge onto her fawn-fur coat, and continues on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I have enough money to send you to school here for the proper four year term. You could get a real education.”   


“I don’t need an education to sell shiny shit to rich folk, Ma.”

“Oh? But this is more than just sitting in on lectures. This is training for your whole being, body and mind. The best soldiers have come from here, and so have many great thinkers. You did a lot of the same training while we were in Duscur...”

The Merchant trails off, now lost in those thoughts. Miklan grimaces a little, and pats her shoulder. “Just-- let me think about it, okay? Maybe I just want to sell with you this year. Besides, I’m too old to go to the Officer’s Academy.”   
  
“They’ll take anybody with the coin, actually,” Anna decides to unhelpfully pipe in. “All the Church cares about is if you can fork over the money.”

“Thanks.” Miklan deadpans. “Good to know they’ll take old meat like me.”

For now, though, the three of them make their way past the great stone bridge that connects Cland to Garreg Mach, Miklan arching his head back to take in the tallest spires. They’d only been here a few days, arriving just in time to sign up for the Garreg Mach merchant hall lottery, and he’d yet to really explore all of the campus. There was just so much to do and see…

If he  _ did  _ go to school here, this would be his home for the next four years. Miklan doubted that his mother would up and leave him here alone during that time, so she’d probably merchant here or in Cland-- and if he had an anchor here, like his school terms, nobody would be able to tell her to go away. Now that he thought on it, the last time he can think back to having any sort of formal teaching was...

Miklan stops dead in the middle of the road, prompting the Merchant to look over her shoulder. “Miklan? What’s wrong?”   
  
“I just realized,” He says, eyes wide as he puts the dates and thoughts together. “Ma, it’s been almost exactly ten years since you took me out of Gautier Territory.”

The Merchant’s brow furrows for a moment, thinking-- and then her eyes widen as well, a hand covering her lips. “So it has been! Goddess, has it truly been that long already…?”

An entire ten years have passed. Miklan can scarcely wrap his mind around it. The years have passed by so quickly… Glenn died four years ago, but it still felt like yesterday, and it felt like just last week that he and the Merchant were guests in Colopio. If he thinks hard enough, he can still hear Estel’s lovely laugh, see Josei hunched over the parilla, see Dario heft up the kids as they squeal with laughter....

But those times were long gone. At least Dedue was still with them-- and if he did agree to go to term, he’d get to see him again too. Maybe he’d keep an eye out on him too.

Anna interrupts their thoughts, slinging her arms over their shoulders. “Y’all should celebrate! How about a nice dinner on me tonight?”   
  
“You sure about it being on you, and not surcharging us for it later?” Miklan retorts.   
  
“No, I really mean it, on me. Here,” Anna pulls out her purse and counts out a few thousand mark pieces, putting them into the Merchant’s hand. “Return what you don’t use. There’s a super nice tavern right at the monastery gates. Tell ‘em Anna sent you and you won’t have any issues.”   
  
There’s a murderous glimmer in Anna’s eyes that tells Miklan that she’d make true on those words if they had any trouble. The Merchant closes her hand around the gold, pocketing it. “Thank you, Anna. For now, though, I think Miklan and I would like to move our things to the monastery.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, better get a move on before the others take all the good spaces. I should go claim my spot too. I want a room with a view!” 

Anna takes off at a sprint, her pink ponytail bobbing behind her. Miklan watches her go, grimacing at just how quick she could run in heeled shoes. “Think she’ll fall and break an ankle?”   
  
“She’d find a way to charge Garreg Mach for that.” The Merchant snorts, picking her pace up a bit. “But she has a point. Let’s hurry and get a room.”

The merchant rooms are located just on the other side of the mess hall, relatively close to the courtyard where they would be selling. There’s already a few merchants milling about, picking out rooms-- they can hear Anna tussling with the buff blonde blacksmither, Greta, over the room closest to the courtyard. It’s easy for Miklan and the Merchant to slip into the empty one beside them, laying claim to it by laying their coats down on the beds inside.

It’s a fine enough room; two beds, a closed off bathroom, a tiny fireplace with a cookstand, a closet and a variety of other small things. It’s better than some of the rooms they’ve stayed in; Miklan can still feel the fleas crawling on his skin from one hostel in the Alliance. This room’s cozy for two, but then again, if he had his own room as a student…

“So,” The Merchant starts as they begin the process of moving their things from their inn room to their new living quarters. “Where do you want to go tonight to celebrate your liberation?” 

Miklan blows out a breath through pursed lips, wrinkling the scar on his nose. “Shit, Ma, I kind of just want to lay low today. I don’t feel like being around people after being in that crowd.” 

“Fair enough,” The Merchant concedes, setting a chest of her clothes down on her claimed bed. “The mess hall should feed us. I’ll just...” 

She lays a hand on the pocket containing the coins. “Say we spent it all. In return for her taking surplus from me during the Winter Market in Fhirdiad.”   
  
“That was ten years ago! You’re super petty.” 

“And you won’t complain if that coin ends up paying for your uniform.” 

Miklan purses his lips again, sighing and setting his armor down on the ground. “You really want me to go to the same school all these snooty nobles will be at?”

“I still think it would be good for you.” His mother replies evenly. “This monastery has churned out the rulers of Fodlan for centuries. Royal guards come here to finish their study, and every great artist and philosopher did a term here. They can teach you what I can’t; I can explain the ins and outs of the economy and how to keep yourself in shape all I desire, but the school will be able to round your body and knowledge out. They can polish you like a jewel I’ve spent years cutting.”

Miklan still isn’t sold entirely on the idea of being surrounded by a gaggle of nobles almost ten years younger than him. Sylvain being there was putting him a little on edge still… it’d been four years since he’d seen him, and he wasn’t going to be sure how his personality had changed in that time. Maybe their father had finally gotten into his skull and changed him into the little dancing puppet he wanted him to be. Or maybe his womanizing had gotten even worse.

Felix hadn’t responded to his letters in the past year or so. He wasn’t dead-- Rodrigue still wrote the Merchant enough for him to know that. He was probably busy with dealing with Dimitri and keeping Sylvain reined in, but the silence still puts Miklan on edge. What was going on in Felix’s head…?

If he were to start term, it’d be Dedue he’d be looking forward to seeing the most. Dimitri must give him a princely postage allowance, seeing as the letters came in almost twice a month from him. It was always a joy to hear from him, though… and the incessant letter writing surely stemmed from loneliness. Even with the prince at his side, Dedue was still a man of Duscur in a land that wished to see them all dead. Out of everybody in the world, he and his mother were one of the few who understood his struggle. 

For now, he puts the thought out of his mind. He stretches his back out, and motions for his mother to follow him. “Let’s go walk around at least. If we’re gonna live here, we should know the ins and outs of the place. ...And I might want to go indulge in a steak dinner after all.”

The Merchant snorts and takes his hand into her gloved own. In younger years, he might have shaken her off, embarrassed, but here, he just closes his palm around hers. “Alright then, let’s go celebrate. Afterwards, we can go to the market and I’ll buy you anything you desire.”

“What if it’s that really expensive saddle at the tack shop?”   
  
“It shall be yours.”

“How many saddles could you buy to be equal with a four year term?”  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information.”

Goddess. How did normal folk manage to get enough money to come here? Scholarships existed, sure, and nobles sometimes gave out patronages, but Miklan can’t imagine a normal person could just slide up and slide a few thousand gold marks over and get in. His mother was willing to part with a decent chunk of change to send him here-- remarkable, considering that she was hard pressed to even surrender a hundred gold on basic supplies back when he was a teenager.

They find the tavern that Anna was talking about, and manage to settle in without too many looks after passing along Anna’s referral. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread floats through the air, Miklan’s mouth watering. He hadn’t eaten good food like this since they left Derdriu, long used to travel rations and whatever his mother could make for them on the road. While she was good at baking bread on the go, it wasn’t any fun when their starters went sour…

Their meal’s brought out to them, hot bread, roasted vegetables and delicious grilled meat. The Merchant excuses herself for a moment in the middle of their meal to disappear to the washroom, and returns with an odd sniff. They don’t talk too much during the rest of the meal, too focused on savoring an actual good meal, but as soon as the plates are cleared, the Merchant sighs and rests her chin on her knitted fingers, looking over him fondly.

“Remember how I said time passes like a blink of an eye to me?” She murmurs softly. “I really can’t believe it’s been this long.”

Miklan swallows the last hunk of bread in his hand, wiping his mouth off on his napkin. “Neither can I. Shit, I’m going to be twenty-seven come next year. I’m halfway through with life!”   
  
“You’ll live until you’re old and bald if I have any say in it,” His mother retorts. Her gaze softens afterwards, and she lets out a little sigh. “But it’s been interesting watching you grow up. And… It would be a lie to say that I haven’t enjoyed our time together.”

“You’re not usually one for sappiness.” Miklan tries to brush the words off, unable to help the twinge of satisfied pride inside of him. 

“I’m not, and I never truly imagined being a caretaker, but… when I went to the washroom earlier, it was because I was thinking about the first time you called me mother without any sarcasm and I started to cry.”   
  
“You did not!” 

“I did! I absolutely did. And I just… Goddess, Miklan. I wish you could have met my family. They would have loved you so, so much. You would have gotten along so well with my sister.”

“Which one?” Miklan tries to tease, but even he has to admit that his chest is getting a little tighter. 

“The one born after me-- Setsuka. She was named after my father’s mother.”

“What were their names? Not sure if you ever told me.”   
  
The Merchant smiles, her red eyes looking out the window for a moment. “Aster and Mikhail. My siblings were Setsuka, Victoria, and Kilian.”   
  
“What a weird mash of names.” Miklan muses, pondering over what they must have looked like all together. 

“True, but we were happy. Setsuka was such a lively girl-- both Victoria and Kilian preferred books over people, but Setsuka just… she was just full of so much energy. You two would have gotten along so well.”

  
The Merchant sniffs, and wipes a tear away from her eyes with her hand. But she doesn’t seem sad; just wistful. Miklan is long used to her being upset after talking about them, but she… has grown these past few years. So has he, he supposed. 

“Well,” Miklan says, leaning his cheek on his palm. “Maybe after all this, we can go back to your country. Go visit their gravesites. You can introduce me to them then.”

The Merchant is quiet for a moment. Her lips slowly split into a soft smile, a glimmer of a tear streaking down her face before she can stop it. “I think… they would like that. Perhaps I can find a way to take you there.”

Miklan smiles back, just for a second, before stretching his arms above his head and giving his arms a good stretch. “Want to get a good bottle of wine before we leave and drink back in our room to celebrate more? I think I’m done with people for the day. For real this time.”

The Merchant laughs, and pushes herself up from their table to go pay for their meal. “Sure, sure. Just as long as you don’t drink yourself into a stupor again.”

“Hey, that only happened  _ once _ !” 

After stopping by the market and buying Miklan something he wants (he ends up settling for a new set of nice boots), the Merchant pours out two tall glasses of wine for them back in their room, and they settle in for the night. Maybe, Miklan muses as he rolls his wine in the glass, watching the ruby liquid swirl, maybe he will go to school here. At the very least, it would be protection for his mother. Maybe a safety net for Dedue as well. They had to stick together in a changed Fodlan.

“Ma,” He speaks up, setting the glass down and laying his head down on his pillow when the room starts to swirl, just like his wine. “Ma. I think I’m going to sign up for term. Someone’s… gotta look after you.”

The Merchant looks up from her book, her face shrouded by white hair. “Are you certain?”   
  
“Positive.” Miklan sinks further and further into the bed. “Just promise me the uniform won’t look like shit on me.” 

His mother snorts and decides he’s done for the night, taking a blanket and draping it over his form. “You won’t. Promise. Go ahead and get some sleep before the worst of that wine hits you.”

Miklan mumbles and turns onto his side, trying not to grimace at the unpleasant flip-flopping his belly does. “Don’t stay up too late, Ma.” 

“I won’t.” 

Miklan closes his eyes and tries to will the spinning sensation away, not sure of how long he lays there. What he is certain of, though, is the soft sound of the Merchant blowing out the lanterns in their room, and the soft press of her lips upon his furrowed brow before she retires to bed. 

The feeling sends a pleasant wave of warmth through him, cutting through the haze of the alcohol, and Miklan falls asleep warm and content.  



	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a regular updating schedule? I don't know her. 
> 
> Just as a note: thanks to the Abyss DLC, updates are going to likely SLOW DOWN for a bit. I will continue to write so I have material for you all, but I'm waiting to make sure that the Abyss storyline doesn't dramatically change the main story. And plus, I gotta figure out what to do with four new characters that live in the basement...
> 
> twitter: @dedizenoflight  
reddit: @spedira

_ Because I’m going to be free, and I’m going to be fine… _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1179 _ _   
_ _ Lone Moon, Day 20 _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Garreg Mach Monastery _

The Merchant hmms and adjusts a button near Miklan’s collar, stepping back as the seamstress returns with a black and gold jacket. “Arms out, please.” She singsongs pleasantly.

Miklan groans and does as he’s asked, allowing the seamstress to wrap him up in the snug fitting jacket. The black and gold pants must have been starched, because he feels like he can barely move in them. Everything about this uniform seemed to be a newfound way to torture him-- he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to keep this jacket closed all day long.

The seamstress hmms and pulls a few pins out of the seams of the jacket, closing it with its hidden hooks and eyes in the front. “There!” She declares, turning him to look at the mirror. “Don’t you look dashing?” 

“More like ridiculous.” Miklan says, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Indeed, with such a closed up, stiff uniform, he looked like he was some kind of butler for an esteemed household instead of a student. When the seamstress turns her back, he quickly pulls the jacket open, sighing in relief as cool air seeps in through his blouse. 

“Remember,” The seamstress says as the Merchant passes over the last bits of payment. “You may wear the uniform as you wish during class hours as long as you keep your blouse and pants in tact. Your summer uniform and winter cloak are in this bag-- as well as your spare uniforms. Make sure these get laundered daily!”

“Yes, thank you, thank you,” The Merchant quickly gathers their things and hustles Miklan out of the fitting room before the chatty seamstress can trap them even longer. The next student in line, a silvery haired boy with freckles, files in after them as they head out into the courtyard and back to the Merchant’s room. 

Once they arrive, the Merchant lays out the uniforms; ten crisp white blouses, five pairs of tight fitting slacks, two additional black and gold jackets, three black vests, three gold vests and five pairs of gold slacks for the coming summer, and one heavy black cloak lined with gold. “And to think this doesn’t even include your formal uniform.” The Merchant chuckles. 

“Formal uni— Goddess, dress blues too? After all these?”

“When there are formal services and events, you’ll have to look your best.” 

“And  _ how  _ much was all this?”

“Money that I already had. Don’t worry about it.” 

The Merchant goes to fold up the clothes while Miklan sits, feeling the seams in the uniform stretch, unused to having a body in them. He pulls his jacket off and ties it around his waist, already feeling much less stuffy. This was an okay look, he thinks-- casual enough, but still code compliant. At least he could  _ move  _ now...

“Term starts on the 4th of the Great Tree Moon,” The Merchant reminds Miklan, reading over the thick sheath of papers Bishop Seteth had given them this morning during one-on-one briefing. “And this afternoon is Open House. A lot of students are already here-- In fact, I think the boy behind us at the seamstress is in the Blue Lion house as well. I’ll be busy with the market, so I can’t come with you…”

“I’m twenty-six, Ma, I think I can handle Open House by myself.” Miklan says that, but grimaces at the thought of being surrounded by people a decade younger than him all night long. The class roster had revealed he had only one other person close to his age, a girl named Mercedes von Martritz, all the rest of them below the age of twenty. 

The classes were actually fairly small, only eight to ten students in a group. The bishop had been explaining that the houses were split into five groups that cycle through classes each weekday, with two days of rest in between. Honestly, Miklan had tuned out the bishop’s spiel halfway through, and he kind of regrets it. Maybe he should look through his pamphlet again.

But Open House was… soon, actually. The Merchant’s busy getting into her dress for the evening, wrapping her fawn fur cape around her and pinning it closed. She sits down at her desk, adjusting the small mirror sitting on it to get a better look at her hair, and starts to brush it out. The standing mirror slowly inches out of position, and she has to stop every few moments to adjust it, and the squeak of the hinge seems to cut across the room like nails on a chalkboard.

“Ma, that’s annoying.” Miklan finally sighs, coming behind her and taking the brush out of her hand. “I got it. Ponytail?”  
  
The Merchant nods, and sits quietly as Miklan brushes her hair out, winding it up in his calloused hands. Even after a recent trim, it was still long, brushing her waist when up in its ponytail. Even his own hair was starting to get on the long side, having only had small trims since his major haircut back in Enbarr. And that was… Goddess, six years ago. 

It’s easy for Miklan to wind the Merchant’s hair up and tie it off with its leather band, letting it fall against her back. “There. I didn’t butcher it too badly, now did I?”

The Merchant laughs and stands up from the desk, swishing her hair. “No, it looks just fine. Thank you. Now, get out of here-- Open House starts soon! We can move your things to your dorm room after.” 

Miklan groans, but does as she says and leaves their room-- well, soon to just be  _ her  _ room. There’s already students milling about, heads of colorful hair bobbing around the courtyard. Girls chat at the lattice tea tables near the gazebos, a few boys roughhouse near the fountain, and… it’s actually kind of nice. The structure, the normalcy of it all, is just... nice. 

The Merchant waves to Miklan as she heads the opposite direction, down towards the Market. He hadn’t been there just yet; he either wasn’t in the mood to go or he had just been too busy with sign ups. Once term started, though, he has a good feeling he’ll be there a lot in his down time. 

And there’s already so many students here. The youngest look to be seventeen, and he definitely is the oldest and tallest by far. Miklan feels like he’s a shark in a sea of minnows as they make way for him as he walks, eyes scanning for the Blue Lion classroom. With any luck, and any hope, he’d be able to stop in, get his paperwork, and get out before anybody noticed him.

Miklan finds the classrooms easily, their doorways flanked by their respective banners. When he peeks inside of the Black Eagle room, it’s jam-packed with students, headed by a young woman with white hair. His brows furrow; who on earth was that? Wasn’t Princess Edelgard supposed to be here? When the girl turns her head, he gets a glimpse at her face, and he can’t help the way his jaw drops-- that  _ was  _ Princess Edelgard. But she had been a brunette the last he saw her, right? And she carried herself so stiffly too… 

He must stand there gaping like a fool for too long, because a lanky black haired youth appears before him, seemingly from nowhere. Miklan nearly leaps out of his skin when he speaks, his voice cold and raspy. “I believe you have found the wrong classroom. You don’t look like anybody on our roster.”

“Y-Yeah, yeah, I know,” Miklan blusters. “I was just looking.”

“See to it that you do not linger too long.” The young man speaks again, yellow eyes narrowing. He slips into the room and takes his place behind Edelgard, who is busy chatting with a tall, generously bosomed girl. If Miklan had to guess, he’d say that boy was Edelgard’s vassal. Quite the intimidating looking fellow…

Miklan can’t say that he wants to have him in his face again, so he moves on to the proper room. He stops right before the doorway, pressing his back to the wall and taking a good breath in. In and out. Get the paperwork from the professor, and go. Don’t linger for too long. 

Miklan blows out a breath, and pushes himself off the wall, venturing inside of the bustling classroom. Almost at once, a hush, a silence falls over the lot, a portion of the room coming to a standstill. 

Miklan grimaces. Great. Just what he wanted.

“What, is my fly undone?” He grouses, trying to prompt a reaction out of someone. He’d rather take that than the awkward silence.

The crowd parts, and a familiar face emerges from the back of the room. Dedue is regal in his black and gold uniform, his hair now closely shaved and brought back into a ponytail, one of Dario’s big golden earrings hanging from his left ear. All the air seems to deflate out of the dark-skinned man upon seeing the red head, and after looking over his shoulder for some unspoken permission, he approaches Miklan and takes him firmly by the hand. 

“I...” The words are choked with emotion, Dedue’s blue eyes locking onto Miklan’s. “I am pleased to see you here among our class, Miklan. Words cannot describe it.” 

At once, the classroom explodes into chatter and questions. Miklan? As in Miklan Gautier, Sylvain’s older brother? Miklan shirks under all the attention; there went his plan to get in and get out without notice. And it seemed that Sylvain already had a reputation about him. Great… But even so, to see Dedue here, alive and in seemingly good spirits, is enough for him to endure the cacophony of the classroom. 

“You didn’t think I’d just leave you to the hounds here, right?” Miklan looks up at Dedue, squeezing his hand and clapping his shoulder. “Ma got in on the merchant ticket. Figured I’d stick around so I could look after you.”

For a moment, Dedue seems truly taken aback, as if he were not expecting such an answer from him. Before Dedue can make any retort, someone rests a hand on the crook of his elbow, and Dedue straightens immediately.

“Your Highness,” Dedue greets the newcomer softly.

Miklan blinks, taking in the tall, wiry form of His Highness Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. He’d been-- so small, so young, when he saw him coiled up in Glenn’s bed four years ago. Now he stands tall and proud, his blonde hair falling into his blue eyes, and those blue eyes are looking at him inquisitively. Miklan remembers his manners enough to press a fist to his chest and bow, greeting Dimitri in kind.  
  
“I almost feel like I know you,” Dimitri muses, offering a hand to Miklan. “Have we met before? Perhaps in Faerghus…?”

Miklan is definitely not keen to bring up the Tragedy of Duscur, so he leaps a little further back into the past as he takes his hand. “Yeah, it was a long time ago, I’m not surprised Your Highness doesn’t remember. The 7th Annual Year End Market. I sold you a dagger.”

Dimitri’s fine blonde brows knit, as if trying to wrack his brain far back enough into the past… but then, a spark of recognition lights up his face, and Dimitri smiles, shaking his hand even more. “That was  _ you _ ?! Goddess, what are the chances of us meeting again here? And you know Dedue as well?”

“Uh,” Miklan’s trying very hard not to make a face as Dimitri crushes his hand in his own. “Y-yeah. My ma and I stayed with him and his family for almost two years. Your Highness, I--”   
  
“Please, no, don’t call me that. Here in these halls, we are friends and equals! You can call me Dimitri like the others.”

“That’s great, Dimitri, but--”   
  
“But what?”   
  
“You’re breaking my hand.” Miklan finally manages to wheeze.

Dimitri seemingly remembers himself, realizing that yes, he is currently mangling Miklan’s hand. With a gasp, he lets go, his face flushing red as some of their classmates giggle at his misfortune. “I beg your pardon! Some days I can barely temper my strength. I’m very sorry, ah…”

“Miklan,” Miklan supplies his name, waving his hand to get some blood back into the crushed digits. “Miklan Anschutz Lethy Soros. If you’re hearing a different name flying around, that’s not me.”

“Miklan,” Dimitri repeats, as if committing it to memory. “Well, Miklan, know this; any friend of Dedue’s is a friend of mine. Should you need anything during our time here, please don’t hesitate to come and find me. Morning or night.”

Already so warm and so welcoming, despite the darkness in his eyes. Dimitri hadn’t changed at all in these past ten years, Miklan muses to himself. 

“Have you seen Felix Fraldarius?” Miklan asks Dimitri. “The class roster said he was here this year…”

“You don’t have to ask the boar for me,” Comes a snapping voice. “I’m over here. Use your eyes, Miklan.”

Yep, there’s Felix.

Miklan turns to face the voice, finding Felix leaning up against one of the classroom pillars. He’s taller, of course, more fleshed out… but it’s the hardness of his features that takes Miklan a little aback. He was only seventeen, but he already looked worn out and aged up into his twenties. Dedue had mentioned in his letters that he had been with them during those uprisings, so maybe that has something to do with it…   
  
“Been a while,” Miklan says. “You stopped responding to my letters.”

“It’s hard to send a letter to a man who won’t stay in one place.” Felix retorts, and Miklan can’t help but acknowledge that truth. “I’d rather not waste the postage. I figured we would cross paths again, one way or another.”

“Considering how Ma and your old man get on…” Miklan pauses, considering that. If he was here, then surely his father couldn't be too far behind. "Is your father here too?” 

Apparently, that was not the right thing to ask. Felix makes a face that could wither up the hardiest of plants. “Yes, but I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care to ask. He’s likely down at the market looking for Lady Witch.”

Makes sense. Miklan wants to ask more questions, but before he can, Felix turns up a hand. “We can talk later. Just promise me you’re not here to mess around, like  _ some  _ of these people. And one more thing-- If you value your life, don’t get cozy with the boar. He may smile and say pretty words, but he’s a monster underneath that kind demeanor.”   
  
“What are you even talking about?” Miklan retorts. 

Felix doesn’t respond, instead turning on his heel and going to the professor’s desk to pick up his paperwork. Miklan furrows his brows at Felix’s abrasiveness— gone were the days where he could at least  _ talk  _ to him. He had taken on the form of some angry, guarded wolf, biting at whatever hand was extended its way. Dedue said that Felix had been with them during the western insurrection; just what had he seen to turn him that way…?

Miklan takes a step forward to follow him, but is quickly stopped by a short red haired girl. She just about lights up at the sight of him, stopping in front of him and taking him all in. 

“I’ve greeted everybody but you,” She blusters, taking his hand and shaking it rapidly. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to show up!”

Miklan nearly swears as she crunches down on the hand that Dimitri had just gotten done mangling. “T-Trust me, I didn’t want to--”

“I’m Annette Fantine Dominic!” The girl continues on as if she hadn’t even heard him. “You can call me Annie if you want, everybody does. Oh-- Mercie, Mercie, he’s here! He’s finally here!”

Miklan is actually a little relieved to see Mercedes approach, the girl standing tall above most of her younger classmates. Her lavender eyes are warm and sparkling as she giggles at Annette’s exuberance. “Annie, I think you’re crushing his hand.”

Annette looks down and realizes just how tight her grip is, letting go with a help. Mercedes takes that hand in her own and cups it gently, a relief after how hard everybody’s been shaking it.

“My name is Mercedes,” The young woman introduces herself, her smile as warm and sweet as honey. “It’s nice to have someone close to my age in our class. I couldn’t quite believe my eyes when I saw that you were twenty six!”

Miklan mumbles a little, the digits of his hand curling into her own. “I feel like a moron being here with all these kids. I feel like someone’s going to ask if I’m the babysitter at any moment.”

Mercedes laughs, softly patting the back of his hand as if she were his mother. “Oh, no, we’re happy to have you! It’s nice to have variety in the classroom-- it is the spice of life, after all. And you know, if I may… perhaps if need be, we can babysit the younger ones together!"

The young woman chuckles more as the red-head flushes, pulling his hand back and mumbling about grabbing his paperwork. That’s what he had come here to do, after all, so he finally pulls himself away from the majority of his classmates and gathers up his paperwork from the nice blonde haired lady sitting behind the desk. He has a black leather book that’s likely the school handbook and a few papers he needs to fill out. Where was an empty seat…?

Ah, there. Miklan finds a spot next to someone already filling out their paperwork, and asks if he can borrow her spare quill. The girl looks up to nod, but when they catch each other’s eyes, they both pause. 

“Ingrid,” Miklan says first, remembering her from the wedding and the funeral he had seen her at. “Ingrid Galatea, right?”

“Yes,” She replies back slowly, already carefully on guard. “You’re Miklan Gautier.”

“Not anymore.” Miklan quickly corrects. “It’s been… a while. Have you been well?”   


“As well as I can be.” Ingrid passes him the spare quill, and pushes the inkwell she’s using between them so he can access it as well. “It’s a surprise seeing you here.”   
  
Miklan starts to scribble his information down on the sheet, filling out his mother’s name and where she worked with ease. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to be here myself, but my ma’s working as a merchant here now. Figured I might as well go to school while I was at it.”

“You mother…” Ingrid pauses now, her quill coming to a stop on her parchment. “I was not aware that Lady Alicia had expanded her hobbies.”   
  
“Not her.” Miklan tries to keep his voice even. She had no way of knowing, after all. Not unless she’d been in the loop. “She’s not my mom in the slightest. My ma’s the woman that was with me at… King Lambert’s wedding.’   
  
It’s easier to say that than to remind her of Glenn’s funeral. That had been her fiance, after all-- he did not want to dredge up more sour memories than he could help. Ingrid pauses once more, trying to think back to all those years ago, but she must remember because her face suddenly falls.    
  
“Oh.” The word falls like lead out of Ingrid’s mouth. “The Duscur woman.”

“She isn’t from Duscur.” Miklan immediately retorts, feeling himself get on edge at her tone. “And even if she was, she’s a good woman. Better than the sow that spat me out.”

Ingrid does not respond, simply returning to her paperwork. Miklan resigns himself to doing the same, finishing the script with his signature and returning her quill to the inkwell. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.” 

Miklan offers the words in what might be a peace offering, but Ingrid simply nods and keeps working on her paper. A cold lump fills his stomach, and he has to tell himself that it’s not worth fighting over. It wouldn’t be any good to be tossed out of school before term had even started.

“Ingrid,” A familiar voice says, a familiar boy with red hair flinging his arms across her shoulders. “So studious as always!”

Ingrid’s fist whirls up past her shoulder and hits the boy in the face, pushing him off of her. “Don’t even try, Sylvain. I’m not in the mood for it.” She says, not looking up once from her paperwork.

So here he was, Sylvain himself. He’d grown a lot in the past four years; definitely taller and more filled out, his voice finally having settled on one tone instead of cracking at the slightest provocation. Miklan knew that he was going to encounter him here-- he’d said so himself at the funeral four years ago-- but he still wasn’t… quite sure if he was ready to be face to face with him again. 

But here he was. And now Sylvain’s caught sight of him too, rubbing the spot Ingrid’s fist had hit. “I’ll be damned,” Sylvain says, eyebrows raised. “That you, Miklan?”

“Who else would it be?” Miklan says, quickly gathering his things and pushing himself up from the desk. “I was just on my way out anyway.”

“Wait, wait, hold on, let me look at you.” Sylvain stops him by grabbing his shoulder, taking him in fully from top to bottom. He whistles, shaking his head. “I have to admit, black and gold look good on you. You in for the four year term?”

“Yes,” Miklan replies, turning away and walking towards the professor’s desk. Sylvain follows him like a shadow, watching him turn in his forms in exchange for a student ID card. “Looks like we’ll be stuck together unless one of us transfers out.”

“And transfer out of the class where all the pretty girls are? I don’t think so.” 

“There are plenty of pretty girls in the Black Eagle class. You should think about bothering them.”

“With Princess Edelgard’s vassal breathing down my neck the whole time? Again, no thanks. I’m content right where I’m at.” 

Sylvain produces a folded up, crinkled set of papers, giving them to the professor behind the desk. She grimaces, trying to make out Sylvain’s messy handwriting, but she finally passes over his ID. Miklan goes to brush past him and get out of the room, hoping to escape before anybody else can find him, but Sylvain grabs his shoulder before he can get too far.   
  
“Hey, wait,” Sylvain asks, his tone lowered slightly. “Can I ask you something?”   
  
Miklan blows out a breath. Keep it together, Miklan. “And what’s that?”   


“I know that I’m in no position to be asking anything of you,” Sylvain says, casting his eyes down to the floor. “I’m really not. But can you… can you keep an eye on Felix for me?”

Miklan’s brows furrow. “What, not on speaking terms?”   
  
“No, we are, I just-- I just want an extra pair of eyes on him. Ingrid’s been pissed at him for the past two years, Dimitri’s busy being, y’know, Dimitri-- and I’m still dealing with our folks.”    
  
Sylvain’s face falls just thinking about it. “Speaking of, they’re still pissed at you. You should have seen Dad the day he got the court papers about your adoption.”

Miklan, unable to help himself, lets out a snort. “I would have paid good money to see his reaction. I bet it was great.”   
  
“It was if you weren’t me.” 

Sylvain goes quiet. Miklan opens his mouth, then clamps it shut, thinking about that. Shit. Sylvain probably got his ass run through the ringer because of that. Not exactly his problem now, but… 

“You’re here now.” Miklan says simply, unsure of what else to say. “And you’ll be here for the next four years. Away from them.”

“So I will be.” Sylvain says a little distantly, as if he weren’t quite sure of that himself. Miklan shifts uncomfortably on his feet, eager to end the conversation and get going before he can look at him more like  _ that _ . 

“I’ll watch Felix,” He finally says. “I had plans to anyway.”

Sylvain finally seems to relax, chuckling to wipe away some of the darkness from his face. “Remember how I said that maybe we could meet in less garbage circumstances four years ago? I think this is less garbage circumstances.”

“Don’t count on that just yet.” Miklan finally pulls his hand away, turning to head out the door. The noise of the crowd is starting to get to him, and he’s eager to escape back to the dorms. 

“Oh,” He hears Sylvain say behind him, catching sight of the light blue satin tucked inside his mane of red hair. “That’s Glenn’s ribbon in your hair, isn’t it?”

That gives their portion of the classroom pause. Miklan doesn’t turn back, but he hears Ingrid’s quill tip snap on her parchment, and from his vantage point, even Felix comes to a stop. He looks over his shoulder at Sylvain, looking very, very tired.

“Yeah. He was my friend, after all.”

Miklan finally pushes out of the Blue Lion classroom, clutching his student handbook and ID to his chest, quickly rushing down the hall to the dorms. He picks the room closest to the stairs, throws his things onto the bed, and rushes to get the rest of his things into the space. When he’s done, Miklan drops himself into the chair at the desk and takes in a long, deep breath, and spends just as long blowing it out.

He could do this. If not for himself, then for his mom, and Dedue too-- Goddess knows that nobody was going to be kind to them for the next four years. And Felix could probably use a hand too, provided he didn’t bite it off when he offered it to him. He’d always been a bit of a sourpuss and a bit of a crybaby when they were younger, but…

There’s a knocking on his door. Well, not quite knocking, since it sounds more like someone barreling into it at full speed several times. If he didn’t know any better, Miklan would say he could even see some dust fall from the ceiling with each hit. 

“Uh--” Miklan starts.

The door is swung wide open, and a tall young man steps in, having to come in sideways thanks to his absolutely massive shoulders. “It  _ is  _ you!” He exclaims, wasting no time in picking Miklan up and destroying his ribcage in a hug. “I thought I saw you earlier, but I wasn’t certain ‘til I saw you blow out of the Blue Lion room! I can’t believe you’re here! And you’re my next door neighbor too!”

“R-- Raphael?” Miklan chokes out.

“That’s me!” Raphael’s arms grow tighter and tighter. “You do remember! I just got done chatting with your ma down at the Market, and I just had to see you again! How have you been? What have you been doing these past few years? Oh, man, you didn't get to meet Ignatz while you were in Dorset, we have to fix that--”

Miklan resigns himself to answering questions for the next few weeks. And to nursing his bruised body too.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've slowed down so much! My editor has been sucked in FFXIV hell and I've been planning my wedding. Story isn't dead, I promise!
> 
> Twitter: @dedizenoflight  
Reddit: @spedira

_ Tell me you see it too, we've opened our eyes and its changing the view… _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1180 _ _   
_ _ Great Tree Moon, Day 3 _

_Garreg Mach Monastery _

“What the hell do you mean our professor’s gone??” Miklan half-yells, startling a portion of the mess hall. “Term begins tomorrow and now we might not even _ have _one because our teacher ran off?”

Dimitri holds up his hands beseechingly, looking just as lost as the rest of their table. “Please, I know we’re all confused and frustrated, but the school is looking into it. I’m sure Professor Selch had her reasons for leaving, although that does leave us without a teacher… for now, the start of term’s been pushed back to the 25th. In the meanwhile, it looks like we’ll be on a swing schedule for Orientation.”

“Which means that we have a few days off for independent study.” Annette counts on her fingers, tongue pinched between her lips in concentration.”Tomorrow’s Orientation, then a proper tour of the monastery-- there’s a private Mass with the Archbishop for our class after that and…”  
  
Miklan tunes out Annette’s thinking, turning back to his meal and trying to finish it. The grilled fish doesn’t look so appetizing with the news of Professor Selch’s sudden resigning. Was this the Goddess telling him that coming to school was a mistake?

He and Sylvain haven’t talked much since that day. Sylvain remains at the end of the table with Felix, Ingrid and Ashe, while he ended up grouped in Dimitri and Dedue’s little circle-- and part of Mercedes and Annette’s too, much to his chagrin. Mercedes was just too nice for her own good, so talking to her felt odd, and he couldn’t keep up with Annette’s boundless energy.

Dedue had changed too. One naturally would after witnessing a genocide and watching your family die, of course, but… whenever Miklan tried to get closer, the same way they used to be when he was younger, Dedue shied away and held him out at arm’s length. He didn’t get it; they had spoken almost weekly when their letter writing had been at its peak. Dedue had spilled his feelings out to him, and now he was closed off, like an iron door had been shut.

Circles within circles with a box trying to fit in. That’s how it feels being jammed into the middle of the Blue Lion house. Miklan sighs and finishes his meal; it wouldn’t do him any good to waste any food. The table seems to have dissolved back within their own conversations, only interrupted when a young man with bright orange hair approaches Dimitri from behind, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Your Highness, I hate to interrupt,” The boy’s voice is gentle and smooth, causing Miklan to squint. Where had he heard that tone before? “But Edelgard is wanting to talk to you. She already has Claude by the ear, so I expect she will be coming your way soon.”  
  
“That so?” Dimitri wipes his lips on his napkin, covering up his barely touched meal with it. “Pardon me, friends. Please continue your meal without me.”

“Who needs your permission to do so?” Felix snarks near the end of the table, causing Dedue to send him a warning glance. Dimitri doesn’t seem to be bothered, standing up and taking his plate over to the serving counters.

“Huh.” Miklan muses to himself, looking over his shoulder to watch the redhaired man go back to the Black Eagle table. “He has a really familiar face.”

“You know _ everybody _ though,” Annette points out. “Maybe it was someone you met a long time ago.”

Maybe so. Miklan just huffs and turns back in his seat, placing his napkin over his plate as well. “Don’t exaggerate. I don’t know everybody.”

“It’s not uncommon for houses to be familiar with one another, but for you to know so many people across houses? That’s something else.” Annette replies, before turning her attention to an apple tart on her plate.

“I heard you know Raphael over in the Golden Deer house too,” Ashe pipes up from his end of the table. “It’s kind of odd to see all these people say that they know you.”

“We traveled a lot when I was younger, it’s not as weird as you freaks are making it.” 

“For fate to converge here, where you’ve met so many people…” Mercedes muses, slipping another tart onto Annette’s plate. “Why, it must be the will of the Goddess.”

“Enough,” Miklan cuts the conversation off, shaking his head. “You want to know what’s weirder? The three leaders are all here at the same time, in the same year. When’s the last time that happened?”

“A good while,” Ingrid decides she’s willing to speak to Miklan today. “It’s an auspicious occasion.”

“What are the chances of all three leaders just crossing paths like this? Forget me knowing a few people here and there, _ that’s _something to be in awe at. Maybe some shit can finally get done in Fodlan once we’re all out of here.”

The church bells toil, signaling the end of the period. Miklan pushes himself back from the table before anybody can try talking to him any more, taking his dishes to the serving table and heading out the side door. He breathes a sigh of relief into the crisp, sunny air, slowing down his pace once he’s a good distance away from the mess hall. Ever since he came here, it’d been question after question, ‘do you know this person’ or ‘where you here during this period’…

Miklan slows when he notices a flash of red, yellow and blue in the rose gardens, tucking himself behind a pillar. There’s Dimitri, sipping at a cup of tea that seems far too hot for consumption… Princess Edelgard is beside him, seemingly leading the conversation. On her other side is Claude von Riegan, someone Miklan hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to yet. But he’s curious-- so this was the man who’d be taking over the Alliance in Godfrey’s stead…

Not keen on being caught, Miklan watches them talk for just a moment more before going on his way, ducking into an iron wrought tunnel that’s covered in greenery. This shortcut dumped him out into the Marketplace, and Miklan is keen to spend some time with his mother before he and the other students are called for daily Mass. Weaving his way through the tight space, Miklan finds the door at the end of the tunnel, hoping it’s unlocked--

And it isn’t. Not today. With a sigh, he prepares to turn around, but the handle turns before he can get too far. With a clank and an unlocking noise, the heavy door swings open, an apologetic face framed in a steel helmet peeking through.

“Sorry, Miklan,” The Gatekeeper says, giving him a mock salute. “I forgot to unlock the door again.”  
  
“I’m lucky if it ever is!” Miklan mumbles, slipping through the door and watching as the Gatekeeper closes it up, locking the mechanism on the door. “When did you get on shift today?”   
  
“Just a few moments ago actually, which is why I’m late!” The Gatekeeper walks beside him, guiding him to the open market square that he diligently kept watch over. “There’s been talks of unrest down near Remire Village, so I was at briefing all morning.”

“Huh.” Miklan swears he could have seen the word Remire on Edelgard’s lips when he was spying on their conversation. “Weird.” 

“I know! That’s such a sleepy hamlet, it’s odd for bandits and vagabonds to head that way.” The Gatekeeper doesn’t seem to notice Miklan’s lack of interested response, continuing on without a care in the world. “And it’s been protected by mercenaries for eons. Anybody going there’s asking to get sliced to ribbons!”

“So I’ve heard. Thanks, man.” Miklan perks up a bit when they finally approach the plaza, hustling on ahead of him. “You keep an eye out.”  
  
“Yes, sir!” The Gatekeeper gives him another mock salute, returning to his post. “Nothing will escape these peepers of mine!”

Miklan blends in with the crowd of school staff and students down in the Marketplace, looking for his mother’s booth. When he finds her, she’s being swarmed by a swath of Black Eagle house students, all clamoring to buy tea. By the time Miklan wedges himself through the crowd, most of the tea has disappeared into the hands of the excited students. 

“Business going good?” Miklan asks the Merchant, sliding behind her table and taking a seat beside her.

“Better than I was expecting.” The Merchant counts out of the gold marks spread out across the table, sweeping them up into her purse. “Haven’t had much business from Blue Lions students, but the Black Eagle and Golden Deer houses are making up for it. Raphael makes a point to buy something almost every day…” 

Miklan can see Raphael just down the way casually picking up little dolls and beautifully carved toys, likely to send back home to Maya. He sees Miklan and excitedly waves, a big grin splitting his lips. Miklan can’t help but snort out a laugh; Raphael’s smile was contagious. 

“No harassment yet?” Miklan decides to press, the smile disappearing from his lips.  
  
“Nothing so overt, but I have gotten my fair share of odd looks.” The Merchant places her purse down in its lockbox, closing it up. “It’s fine. Have you eaten yet?”   
  
“A bit, but eating at the table with the others still feels weird.” Miklan admits.

“Eat with me then.” The Merchant slides a laquered box out from her bag, pulling the lid off to reveal delightfully flaky empanadas. “I cooked these last night after most of the students had gone to bed.” 

After putting up a small sign saying she was on break, the Merchant and Miklan sit down on the carpet the Merchant had laid out behind her table and eat together. It had been forever since Miklan had had Duscur food… but it was no surprise that the Merchant had to cook such traditional fare after dark. Avoiding the ire of the students was her key to remaining successful.

“We should invite Dedue to dinner sometime.” The Merchant muses, finishing off an empanada. “I think he’d like that.”  
  
“I don’t know, Ma,” Miklan sighs, taking another pastry for himself. “I’ve been trying really hard to talk to him the past few days and he won’t have any of it. He’s not keen to leave Dimitri’s side, he won’t really talk to anybody unless he has to…”

“Can you blame him? Such caution is necessary.” The Merchant closes the laquered box back up, stopping Miklan from grabbing two more of the pastries. “It will take time for him to feel like he can talk to us again. He’s probably concerned about your image.”

Miklan snorts. “I couldn’t care less about what some privileged brats think.”

“You might not, but _ he _does.”

The bells of the monastery begin to toll. Their time is up. Miklan curses and quickly shoves one of the pastries into his mouth, chewing as fast as he can. “Time for Mass. I’ll see you before bedtime.”

The Merchant smiles and kisses the top of Miklan’s head, despite the halfhearted swats he attempts. “Have fun. You better eat those up before you go in or the Goddess will smite you.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Miklan leaps over her table and quickly hustles off to the cathedral, chewing the pastries as fast as he can. His hands and uniform might be a little greasy by the end of it, but he could care less. He manages to squish into a pew next to Dedue and Ashe just as the altar servers come out to light the altar’s candles, and from there, they all lapse into the opening hymn.

Dedue’s quiet throughout the entire service, but he occasionally points out where they are in the songbook whenever Ashe gets lost. Dimitri, on his other side, seems lost in thought, enough for Dedue to turn his page for him when he fails to do so. What on Earth was on the prince’s mind…? 

The priest running the service raises up his hands to the ceiling, eyes cast heavensward. Behind him, Miklan can hear Sylvain giggling with another Blue Lion girl. Felix, in the pew in front of them, keeps his eyes forward, but Miklan can see him clench his jaw when the giggling persists. And underneath the stonework, Miklan swears he can hear an odd, soft scritching. Someone in the pew ahead mutters something about rats and bad luck.

Miklan sighs. This year was off to a sour start.

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1180 _ _   
_ _ Great Tree Moon, Day 22 _

“Let me get this straight.” Miklan stresses the words again, a vein threatening to pop in his forehead. “The house leaders went off on a church approved expedition to bumfuck nowhere to clear some bandits. Without us.”

“Right so far.” Ashe replies. “They said it was a training exercise. I think.”  
  
“And now they’re coming back with _ Jeralt the Swordbreaker _and his spawn to stay here? And apparently the leader of the knights of Seiros, Alois, gave the message that said spawn should be a teacher?”

“Right.”

“In what world does that make any sense?!” Miklan screeches. “A mercenary with no teaching skills? And they’re coming with their dad who _ miraculously _somehow survived some great fire a few decades back? What is Alois smoking?”

Ashe raises his hands, obviously worn out. “I really don’t know anything other than that! I’m just passing along the news that they might be our new professor, and that Dimitri and the other house leaders are fine.”  
  
It had been quite a stir when the house leaders had upped and left before dawn on the 20th, with nary a word as to where they were going. Dedue fidgeted the whole first morning, disappearing for hours on end in the greenhouse, Edelgard’s retainer had gone and paced a hole in the stonework muttering obscenities about bandits, while Hilda, Claude’s retainer, seemed very nonchalant about it all. Some other girl, Marianne, had done all the worrying for the Golden Deer, praying fervently in the cathedral for hours on end. 

Felix had temporarily taken over the Blue Lion house duties while Dimitri was away and made sure to bitch about it the whole time. Miklan knows he doesn’t want him in an advisor’s position any time soon. Sylvain hadn’t been much help in that regard either, but Ingrid stepped in and helped Felix run things smoothly-- or at least, as smooth as they could when _ they _bickered like stray cats. In truth, Miklan got more done while the house was in disarray than he had in the past two weeks. The chaos of having the house leaders gone took attention off of him, which he very much appreciated. 

But come this morn, a messenger from the Knights of Seiros had come with news that the house leaders were on their way back, and with quite the story to tell. And that’s how he and Ashe have gotten to this point, Miklan sighing and slumping back against his chair.

“When will they be back?” He manages to mumble.  
  
Ashe leans up against Miklan’s door, sighing softly. “Late this afternoon. You want to come and have lunch with me and Mercedes in the meanwhile? Annette should be joining us soon too.”   
  
“Yeah, why not.” Miklan pushes against the arms of his chair and shoves himself out of the seat. He was half tempted to say no, but his stomach is threatening him to say otherwise. “Dedue coming?”   
  
“I asked, but he said no.” Ashe’s lips downturn into a pout. “He says he’s busy making things ready for Dimitri’s return. Ignatz and Caspar are coming too.”

Miklan grimaces. That’s a lot more people than he really wants to deal with, but he’d already told Ashe ‘no’ to several lunches and if he denies any more, he’ll feel like a jerk. “Caspar’s the one that likes to fight everything in sight, right?”

“That’s the one!” Ashe motions for Miklan to follow him out into the garden. The roses are in full bloom, gushing with scent as they meander through neatly manicured rows. “And Ignatz is from the Golden Deer house.” 

“Don’t be shocked when I say this, but I met him once in passing.” Miklan thinks back to their first meeting, back during the Kristens’ funerals. “Met him and Raph on the same day, but we ended up staying with Raph and that’s why he’s so in love with me.”

“Not surprising.” Ashe giggles a little. “He’s very passionate.”  
  
“Don’t remind me.” Miklan grumbles. “You have any idea how many times Raphael’s woken me up this week at 4 AM for training??”  
  
A lot. The answer was a lot. Ashe giggles behind a sleeve and pushes open a wooden door hiding a little garden niche, sunlight streaming through the overhead foliage. “He’s a character alright. Come on, have a seat.”

Miklan, once more, feels weird sitting on a picnic blanket surrounded by children, but the food is good and it’s nice listening to people chat and laugh. By some unspoken rule, bless the Goddess, they seem to know to leave him be and only include him when necessary. Caspar just about breaks down the door coming in with the food, and he’s easily the loudest of the bunch-- which is hard, considering Annette’s there too.

Ignatz really is a kind fellow, one Miklan wouldn’t mind being friendly with more often. They remember each other from the funerals-- they just hadn’t had a chance to talk since that day, and Ignatz seems eager to make up for it., wanting to know about his travels and his life since they left Dorset. Miklan attempts to keep up, but quickly finds himself drowning in conversation.

“Raphael spoke about you and your mother for weeks after that.” Ignatz says wistfully, pushing his glasses up higher onto his nose. “You were his inspiration. An idol.”

“Me, an idol? No way. Raphael just talks big is all.” Miklan tries to retort.

“Oh, absolutely not.” Ignatz leans back into the shrubbery, pulling his knees up to his chest. “You’re the main reason he left home.” 

“Do _ what?” _ _   
_ _   
_“Oh, yes-- he sold off his parents’ business to become a knight, hoping to follow in your footsteps.”

Miklan swears something fierce, Mercedes jumping at such a fiery oath. “That moron! I’m not even a knight! I’m a glorified bodyguard! I swear, the next time I see him I’m going to whoop his--”

Whatever violent oath was going to come out is cut off by some excited clamoring outside their little nook. Caspar’s up first, taking a look outside, whooping with excitement when he sees what the commotion is. “They’re back! Edelgard and the others are back!”

It’s a whirlwind of quickly packing up their food and blankets from there. Miklan lets the kids run ahead of him, taking a leisurely pace towards the courtyard where the house leaders are converging. Dedue’s already there, the prince’s dirty blue cloak draped over his arm. Dimitri’s busy wiping his sweaty face down with a rag when the first group of students converges on him, the courtyard descending into cacophony. 

“Everybody, please,” Miklan can hear Claude laughing softly as his house descends upon him, hands up in mock defeat. “We don’t have much to say! We’re all okay, save for Edelgard’s chronic crankiness.”

“I heard that,” Edelgard snaps from her nesting of students, brows creased in exhausted exasperation. “You acted like a fool the entire time we were being ambushed. Who was it that pulled you out of the way of an incoming knife?”

“Not you, that’s for certain.” Claude chuckles. “We have our newest teacher to thank for that. Speaking of which, where’d the stone-faced fellow get off to?”

“He’s speaking with Lady Rhea.” Dimitri says, his words mumbled behind his towel. He pulls the towel away from his face and takes in a deep breath, looking considerably freshened up. “Apparently she wanted to see him and his father as soon as they got here.” 

“How bold of Lady Rhea.” Miklan can hear Hubert grouse. “Hiring someone right off the street.”

“What gives?” Hilda asks herself. “Is it some new policy to hire whoever happens to slay the most bandits in sleepy little villages?”

“I’ll admit, I don’t understand her intentions just yet either.” Dimitri drapes his towel over his arm. “Perhaps she’s trying to avoid another term delay. Even though our unlikely teacher is… a bit unconventional… I’m sure Lady Rhea knows what she’s doing.”

“The winds of change blow harder and faster than anybody expected.” Claude takes off his jacket, nose wrinkling at the stink that comes off of it. “But you know what, I’m here for it. This place could use a little shaking up.”

“Hopefully ‘shaking up’ doesn’t mean you poisoning all of us with your stench.” Edelgard lifts a corner of her red cape up to her face, eyes watering. “I’m going to go take a bath, and I sincerely _ hope _you two do as well. Hubert, if you’d come with me, I have a few things I need to discuss with you…”

Ever the Imperial shadow, Hubert falls into line at Edelgard’s side. They disappear farther into the monastery, and Claude likewise heads that way after throwing his coat over Hilda’s head. Dimitri sighs, and rubs a face with a gloved hand, the bags under his eyes seemingly darker just from the conversation.

“Goodness, the past few days have been something.” Dimitri murmurs. “I hope things calm down now…”

“You and the rest of us,” Miklan finally finds a foothold in the conversation. “You look like you’re ready to pass out where you stand. Go get some rest.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I still have a whole day ahead of me! I shall go draw a hot bath, and that will carry me through the day.”

Dedue nods, and heads off a few paces in front of him. “I will go make the bath for you, Your Highness.”

“Dedue, no, I can do it myself--!”

Dimitri disappears, chasing his charge into the dormitory areas, leaving Miklan alone with the other milling students. Miklan purses his lips; this was all going very quickly, and in a direction he couldn’t make sense of. Why bring mercs off the streets to become teachers? A knight who had been presumed dead for years was suddenly back? 

Miklan doesn’t want to think about it any more than he already has, lest it give him even more of a headache. Once most of the students scatter, Miklan slowly makes his way back to his dorm. Maybe he could catch a nap before his attention was pulled elsewhere…

Keyword is ‘maybe’. He makes it back to his room and tries to take that nap, but the scratching noises he heard under the stone floors of the cathedral have made their way over to his room. Just his luck, attracting the rats. With a stomp, the skittering grows quiet-- at least for a moment.

Sunset would be soon. Miklan resolves to wake up before then, and finally settles in under his blanket. Term was going to start in three days, and if this noise was going to persist, he’d better sleep when he could.   
  
Miklan dreams about rats nibbling at his exposed fingers, and resolves to personally hunt down the little bastards for making him dream that. He must have dark bags under his eyes, since there’s another round of lightheaded teasing at the dinner table about he and Dimitri matching. Dimitri seems none the worse for wear after all that travel, laughing and making merry with other students…

Miklan turns his eyes towards the table where the teachers all ate, spotting an unfamiliar man there. He remains blank faced despite all the chatter being thrown his way, eyes focused on his soup and nothing else. Miklan narrows his eyes; there was no way this young, dark haired fellow could be their professor. He had to be four or five years older than him!

“Ah, you see him?” Dimitri’s voice cuts through the haze of Miklan’s thoughts, looking over his shoulder as well. “His name is Byleth. Bit of an odd fellow, but his gaze commands respect, and his strength speaks for itself as well.”  
  
“Let’s hope strength translates into social smarts.” Miklan returns to his soup. “He doesn’t look like the brightest candle in the bunch.”

“Now, now, show some respect.” Dimitri frowns. “Do promise you won’t cause any trouble once term starts.”  
  
“No can do.” Miklan finishes off his bowl and stands to take it away. “We’ll see what happens.”

“Miklan!”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit yall I am so sorry. I didn't mean for almost half a year to go by without updating! I've had this chapter sitting around for a long time, but never had the drive to finish. And frankly considering that the past few months have been hell (wedding got cancelled, friends got COVID, both me and my fiancee got laid off, all kinds of shit), I'm shocked i had enough energy to finish this LOL.
> 
> be rest assured Heartlines will be finished one way or another. thank you so much for sticking with me thus far. It means the world to me.

_ I feel like I'm about to fall, the room begins to sway, and I can hear the sirens but I cannot walk away... _

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1180 _ _   
_ _ Great Tree Moon, Day 25 _

_ Blue Lion Classroom _

The skittering is loud today, loud enough for Miklan to want to stomp the stonework into silent submission. But, he can’t do that when they’re in the middle of a query paper-- not to mention he’s already creeped out enough by Byleth that he wants to avoid having him talk to him.

Byleth had all the emotion and expression of a dead fish-- to him, at least. Miklan had no doubt that he was trying, but it was unnerving to see his expression just… always stay the same. Always. Even when Claude ribbed him the day before, even when Hubert towered over him with his one gleaming eye, he just remained as stony-faced as always.

Right now, all of them are filling out a paper with a simple task; tell Byleth about themselves so he could better address and correspond with them. It’s something that seems more suited for younger children, but Miklan supposes that if one spent most of their life as a merc, they’d have to learn how to socialize with normal folk. 

Miklan chews on the tip of his quill pen, the feathers already missing from said terrible habit. What to write... ? Ashe, seated next to him, already has half his paper filled out. Up ahead, Sylvain’s writing a block of text, and Felix’s paper is looking almost entirely white. Dimitri’s already done, teacher’s pet that he is, and so is Ingrid… 

Simple. Simple will do.

_ My name is Miklan Anschutz Lethy Soros. I was  _ <strike> _ originally a Gautier _ </strike>

No, back that up.

<strike> _ I was exiled from the Gautier home, I left the Gautier home _ </strike>

_ I was adopted by my mother, who is a merchant down in the Garreg Mach Marketplace, in 1176. Before then, I was in her service as a bodyguard and fellow shopkeep.  _

Likes, dislikes, hobbies… this really does read as something a child would be filling out.

_ My hobbies include horseback riding and engraving armor and weaponry. I like cooking, reading, and practicing my form. I dislike... _

Ugh. A quick scribbled answer here would do, because nobody in this classroom is ready to have a conversation about the Crest system. This was enough information; short, sweet, and to the point. He collects he and Ashe’s paper and walks it up to Byleth’s desk, where the teacher takes it with a simple nod. 

When all the paperwork is turned in, the lot of them are allowed to quietly jot down notes that Byleth had written down on the blackboard. Simple stuff, really, just to get a grasp on their technical skills. Miklan’s proud that he’s been able to keep up with the rest of the students thus far, even with the obvious age and education gaps. 

The rest of the lesson is rather standard and simple; Byleth asks questions of them based off of their questionnaires, and Miklan mercifully avoids being called upon. He can see the man’s eyebrow quirk in the smallest arch upon studying his paper, and he’s sure that he’s putting the dots between he and Sylvain together. But for today, it doesn’t come up. It was just a matter of time…

The bells ring, the sound going through his bones. The whole classroom explodes into activity, packing their bags and getting ready for the next period. For them, it was their turn to have a free period, and Miklan wants to make the most of it. He’d been getting flabby and softskinned as of late-- sitting at a desk or behind his mother’s merchant stand all day was only compounding the problem.

The training grounds are mercifully empty when he gets there, so he has the first pick of the weaponry. Of course, Miklan goes for a lance, testing its weight in his hands and twirling it about. This was a bit heavier than Glenn’s lance, safely wrapped up in its leather sheath and tucked under his bed, but it would do for now. 

Other students file in and begin to practice their forms as Miklan practices, giving him a wide berth. He supposes the scar on his face is enough to scare shier ones away, but Faerghus born students seem to be the ones who eye him suspiciously. Miklan has to wonder what kind of bullshit his parents spun out of his disappearance and disownment-- probably him flying into some kind of rage at Glenn’s funeral, charging his father and making a general ruckus. 

With a heavy thunk, Miklan sinks the blunt edge of the training lance into the soft wood of the training dummy’s chest. A sloppy effort; if that had been an armored soldier, the lance would have bounced right off his chestplate. Miklan sighs and wrenches the wooden lance out of the dummy, getting ready to try again.

“Lift your arms a little higher. You went in too low.”

Miklan looks over his shoulder. “Teach?”

Byleth stands just a few feet behind him, hands clasped behind his back. It looks like he’s been observing him for a while, silent as the grave-- shit, how long had he been standing there? Byleth approaches and without asking, he takes the lance from Miklan’s hands and adjusts it, lifting his arms into the proper stance. “Like so.”

With a ferocious thunk, the wooden blade of the lance chips off a hard portion of the training dummy’s chest. Miklan blinks; that was a good, hard blow. Byleth certainly was no pansy, although he’s sure his past as a mercenary has made him a jack of all the trades. Byleth nods and hands the lance back to him, watching him try and nodding approvingly when he successfully copies him.   
  
“Good. You have good form.” 

“Gotta have something worth bringing to the table here.” Miklan tries the stance again, slowly feeling himself becoming more comfortable with it-- although his arms and chest are starting to burn, proving that he’s starting to get out of shape. “Did you come here to tell me I did poorly?”

Byleth arches an eyebrow. “It’s hard to fail a questionnaire. No, I just wanted to ask you a few questions. Sylvain mentioned on his paper that you two were siblings. Is that true?”

“Oh, did he?” Miklan throws the lance and curses when it sails past the mark, clanking against the wall. “Yeah, it’s true. I’m not part of that family anymore though, and we’re not close.”

“Mmn.” Byleth watches him pick the lance up again and watches him practice a little more in silence. When he speaks again, it’s with the same calm, quiet voice.

“Why don’t you show me a few things you know. With the lance.”

Miklan’s brow furrows, lips pursing. Show him his stuff? Probably wants to see if this ‘good form’ will last with eyes on him. Pulling his shoulders back, Miklan tries a few more stances and techniques, succeeding in a few good hits. He knows enough from being on the road and from the Merchant’s teaching, but her skills laid in magic and dagger play, not lance work. Compared to those who started their studies when they were kids, he’s likely lacking in quite a few areas.

Byleth finally stops him when he’s panting and drenched in sweat, his arms and chest burning. He observes the torn up training dummy with calm eyes, noting how far the stabs and nicks go into the wood. “Good. You have the groundwork down. There’s room for improvement, but this is a good start.”

Miklan staggers back, sitting down on the dirt floor, wiping his forehead with his jacket. He really is out of shape… “I know it’s not as good as some of the others’. The nobles could run circles around me all day, seeing how they’ve been running up and down mountains since they were brats.”

Byleth’s lips quirk in what looks to be an attempt of a smile, but it comes off a little more as a grimace. “As I said. Always room for improvement. Now, about the rest of your questionnaire, I saw that your adoptive mother works here down at the market.”

“My Ma, yeah.” Miklan is quick to correct Byleth, throwing his jacket to the ground after wiping his sweaty face all over it. “What of it?”

“Nothing. Curiosity is all.”

Despite himself, a hot, defensive flush forms in Miklan’s chest. “That ‘curiosity’ because she doesn’t look like me?”   
  
Byleth shakes his head. “I am merely attempting to learn more about my students and how best to service them. Now… keep up the good work with your form. I’ll come and drill you again tomorrow. Don’t forget we have a lecture after as well.”

Quick as he came, Byleth heads out and leaves the training hall, leaving Miklan to wonder just what the hell was going on in his teacher’s brain. With a rough sigh, he grabs his jacket and stalks to his next classroom, free time almost at its end. Ashe smiles and greets him as always when he sits down-- he’s not the worst benchmate, Miklan supposes.

Their teacher, Manuela, returns shortly and begins their lesson, although Miklan is half-sure she winks at him and fluffs her chest just so a few times. With a sigh, Miklan leans on his palm and gazes out the window, and half thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can survive the next four years. 

:-:

_ Imperial Year 1180 _ _   
_ _ Harpstring Moon, Day 6 _

_ The dorms of Garreg Mach Monastery  _

The Merchant’s eyes crack open, her brows knit firmly together. The skittering is still going, even at this hour of the night.

She sits up, blindly feeling for the robe she draped on the nearby chair. After she finds it, she snaps a finger and the wall lanterns dimly flicker to life, enough for her to get out of bed and get herself into her boots. The noises in the floor were driving her mad, and she’s had just about enough of it.

The Merchant is no fool. She knows that there are tunnels underneath the monastery; she had seen enough church staff vanishing down into the depths of the school and out of the marketplace enough to put the pieces together. But for the sounds to be this loud and this frequent, something is happening down there. She had spent enough nights with her ear pressed to the floor to hear scraping, wheels, and voices. 

Grabbing the oil lantern off of her writing desk, the Merchant straps her dagger to her waist and ventures out of her room. She closes the door softly behind her to not disturb the other merchants, and blows a spark into the lantern. It lights with a soft glow, and when she raises it to her eyes, the hallways are empty and silent. Good. It would be best if no one saw her.

The Merchant pads her way down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the courtyards of Garreg Mach. Carefully, she retraces her steps down a few halls and narrow alleyways, relying on her memory to guide her. She had seen staff members bringing crates of vegetables and dry goods down this way, but she’d always lost them after a while. There has to be a hidden passageway, or some kind of tunnel…

She comes to a dead end. The Merchant raises a hand and presses along the stone wall, feeling for something that might not be quite right. Ah, there-- the stone here doesn’t sound right. She leans against it, and a grim smile cracks her lips when she feels the wall give a little. How foolish to leave this out in the open! Anybody with half a mind could find their way down here if they truly wanted to.

With a hard shove, a panel in the wall gives way, turning on a hinge to reveal a rough hewn set of stairs. Raising her lantern to her eyes, the Merchant slowly descends, closing the panel behind her. In and out, she tells herself, in and out. Just long enough to figure out what the hell the fools down here were doing.

The stairs seem to go down into the earth forever. They’re a little slick and mossy, the Merchant putting a hand against the wall to steady herself. A fall here meant breaking a leg, and she didn’t have the patience for that. Nor did she want to be found to be snooping by church staff… that would make trouble for Miklan, and he had enough to deal with.

At long last the stairs bottom out, a set of doors blocking the way. The Merchant adjusts the lantern’s light, feeding it more oil, and pushes through the doors, finding herself in a small room. It’s an absolute mess; one wall has collapsed in on itself, and there’s exposed beams in the ceiling, but the intact walls are neatly lined with crates and supplies. A crudely carved fireplace has a cooking spit and a soup kettle over it-- with coals that are still smouldering.    
  
“Odd,” The Merchant says to herself. “That shouldn’t be there…”

“Well, well, what have we here? A little mouse?”

She hears the almost-silent footsteps too late. A hand grabs the lantern out of her grasp, the flame sputtering and going out, plunging the room into darkness.


End file.
